


Making It Up As We Go

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Canonical Character Death, Destiel is endgame for this fic, Domestic, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Ghosts, Gore, Hate Speech, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Castiel, Vampire Castiel, Werewolf Dean Winchester, bad!Cas, behavioral relapses, being human AU, elements of BDSM, epic badassness all around, mentions of prostitution and dubcon (not Dean/Cas), there will be chains, this thing just keeps getting kinkier, vengeful!Jo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is living a life of lies.  He’s a werewolf—so once a month, he transforms into a beast and runs wild.  The problem, though, is the rest of the month, and now Dean must try to figure out what his new life means—is he a man, or is he a monster?</p>
<p>Castiel is a centuries-old vampire dedicated to getting his life back on the straight and narrow, but sometimes, living with Dean Winchester just makes that SO DAMN HARD. </p>
<p>And oh yeah, their house is haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Being Human AU. This story is going to be a mix of dark themes, domestic fluff, and as many kinks as I can manage to fit into one story. Enjoy :)

It was a shot in the dark, really.  This whole _being normal_ thing.

 

 

 

            Trying to scrub day-old blood out of blue jeans was a real pain in the ass, and pointless half the time, but Dean was broke and he couldn’t afford to buy a new pair every time something went wrong, which lately, meant all the fucking time.

            Dean huffed and pushed a shaking hand through his hair before he realized what he’d done and cursed himself.  He yanked his hand back, agitated to see that yes, it was still smeared with streaks of red that now undoubtedly marred his hair.  It was too much.

            Dean shoved the pants away and slumped back onto the cold, chipped tiles of his closet-sized bathroom, closing his eyes to try to block out the world.  Dean bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, but it kept him from screaming in frustration, so that was a start. 

            His whole body ached, like he’d spent days on the rack under the attentive ministrations of a true sadist.  His muscles felt like they’d been torn and hastily glued back together—his bones like they’d been wrenched from their sockets and then shoved back unceremoniously.  His head was pounding because he hadn’t had anything but water yet today—hadn’t been able to _stomach_ anything.

            The water in the bathtub continued to drip.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The first time Dean ever saw the man, he’d been sliding from behind the wheel of a E-63 AMG S-model Mercedes-Benz, with flawless, shiny black paint and titanium gray wheels which seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.

            The owner stepped from the car, smoothing his suit jacket with long, delicate-looking fingers.  He was tall—perhaps close to Dean’s own impressive 6’2”, and though he was pale, it was not in the sickly way; it was more in the way of a man that spent his time inside, toiling under fluorescent lights.  His raven hair was artfully mussed, or else the man had recently rolled out of bed from a good fuck.  His eyes were covered by pitch-black Ray Bans that should have thrown the look off, but instead just added to it.  The man was a work in monochrome, except for the splash of color added by the blue tie that sat snug against the man’s throat.

            The man passed by Dean, where he crouched near the wheel of a broke-down Ford Escort in one of the open bays, and spared him barely a glance as he made his way into the front office of Singer Auto.  The glance lasted only a second, but it was one of those moments that seemed to last longer, and even though Dean couldn’t see the man’s eyes through his aviators, he had the feeling that the man had caught Dean staring back at him.  It sent a strange jolt through Dean’s blood. 

            Dean tried to shake off the strange feeling he’d gotten from even so quick a glance, and applied himself to his work.  He never noticed the man leave; not like he was exactly _waiting for him_ or anything, but when the man never emerged from the office, Dean grew slightly worried and decided to investigate for himself.  When he entered the office, however, he only found Garth, leaning casually against the counter, tapping away at his keyboard.  Dean shifted uneasily on his feet and glanced around.  No sign of him.  He cleared his throat and said “Hey man, did a guy come in here a little while ago?”

            Garth frowned at him.  “Sure.  ‘Bout a half hour or so ago.”

            “Oh.  Um… I didn’t see him leave.”

            Garth scratched absent-mindedly at his chin and shrugged.  “Well, he wasn’t here for very long.  Why?  Did you need to ask him something?”

            “No, no.  It’s nothing.  Thanks, Garth.”  Dean retreated back to the garage, wondering why he felt like he had an itch under his skin. 

            By the end of the day, when Dean was methodically trying to scrub the grease from under his fingernails, he had almost convinced himself that the strangely hypnotic man had been a trick of his own imagination.  Except, when Dean packed up for the day and made his way toward the Impala, he noticed that the sleek black Mercedes still sat in the lot.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean wasn’t very good at hiding what he was.  He figured that if he laid low, and kept to himself outside of work, no one would know, and no one would get hurt. 

            Aside from the pattern of sick days he took, which he prayed Bobby would never question, he didn’t think there was any obvious way to tell that there was something… _different_ … about Dean.  He worked his ass off to try to maintain the kind of normal life he’d had _before_ the incident.  What he hadn’t counted on, though, the thing that finally outed him, was a vampire’s keen sense of smell.

            That’s how Dean found himself laying face-down in an alley way on a Friday night, bleeding, and dipping in and out of consciousness.

 

 

 

            He’d heard whisperings that vampires prowled the city of Philadelphia.  Part of him—the old Dean—scoffed at the rumors, dismissed them as scary bed-time stories for kids.  The other part of Dean—the Dean that _knew shit_ he’d never been meant to know, didn’t turn his nose up at anything these days, and made sure to keep his eyes out.  Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t known what he was up against though, not really.

            The rumors never mentioned how territorial the bastards were, or the fact that they moved around like sleazy mobsters from a Hollywood flick.

            Dean had been having a drink at a dive bar called Malone’s, just a few blocks north of his apartment, minding his own business, when the two of them had walked in.  They’d stopped just inside the door and turned their cold eyes to him.  Dean felt his hair stand on end, and though he’d never encountered one before, he’d known in his gut what they were.

            He forced himself to finish his beer before he left the bar, sidling past a group of rowdy young women, who he hoped would distract from his exit.  He only allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief when he turned the corner toward his street, thankful that he was in the clear.

            The bastards jumped him one block up.  They came out of nowhere, almost—one appearing before him, the other blocking his back.  Dean panicked.  He knew he couldn’t outrun them, but he tried anyhow, bolting to the left—and he took a forearm to the throat for his trouble.  The blow knocked him on his ass, wheezing.  A moment later, he was being dragged into the alley way and he figured this was it—this was how Dean Winchester was finally gonna bite it.

            The larger of the two hauled him to his feet, trapping Dean’s hands behind his back.  He hissed against Dean’s ear, “You’re a waste.  Bitches like you taste like mud going down.”  The hulk of a man sniffed his neck and gagged.  “You even smell like dog.”

            He needed a reminder, they said.  Something to keep him in his place.  He was a dog, and they were gods, and his ass didn’t belong past 32nd street.  They beat the lesson into his skin, stomped it into his bones.

            Dean wasn’t a small guy, and he sure as hell wasn’t weak, but it was only a couple days after the full moon, and he still hadn’t fully recovered.  He managed to kick out at one of his attackers, but it hurt so much, he was afraid he’d shattered his leg. 

            He went limp after the fifth or sixth punch.  All he could do after that was cling to consciousness and try to absorb the blows the best that he could, and pray that they didn’t kill him, or if they were going to, that they’d get it over with, already.

            His vision was flickering at the edges when the steady sounds of punches and his occasional groans were interrupted by a deep, calm voice echoing the word “Enough,” against the brick walls of the alley.

            His attackers halted, and the vampire who’d been about to hit him in the face again turned his gaze past Dean.  His lip curled.  “This isn’t your business, Castiel.  Move on.”

            The deep voice of his apparent rescuer, Castiel, took on the slight hint of a growl when he said “This is my city.  Now, let him go.  I won’t say it again.”

            The man who held Dean shoved him away, snarling.  Dean stumbled and fell to the ground, his legs unable to hold him up any longer.  “You don’t give us orders.”  The first man turned to face Castiel as well, and added “You’ve fallen so far, Castiel.  You used to be Lucifer’s favorite pet and now?  What do you think he’d say if he heard you were saving stray werewolves?”

            “What do _you_ think he’d say if I tell him it took two of you to get the job done?”

            A tense silence stretched between them until one of his attackers finally scoffed.  “Fine.  Keep the little bitch.  He wasn’t worth it, anyway.  But don’t think Lucifer won’t hear about this.”

 

 

            Only after Dean was sure that his attackers were well and truly gone, did he brave raising his face from where it had been pressed to the filthy pavement.

            Patent black leather shoes were steadily approaching him, picking their way around stinking puddles and piles of garbage with ease.  The only response Dean could summon was a pained groan.

              Suddenly, the owner of the shoes, _Castiel,_ crouched down near Dean’s head and brushed warm fingers through the tangle of wet, bloody hair that stuck to his forehead.  “You shouldn’t try to move, yet.  You’ve been severely injured.”

            Even on the edge of death, the man’s voice caused Dean to shiver.  It was deep, and calm, and the cadence was more soothing than it had any right to be.  On the tail of that thought, came the cold wave of realization when Dean’s hair stood on end despite his condition.  He jerked away from the man, and managed to roll onto his back.

            Dean gasped, winded from the effort and the stabbing pain in his ribs.  Even with his eyes half swollen shut, he recognized the man as the owner of the black Mercedes.  “It’s you,” Dean hissed, shoving himself backwards.  “You’re one of them!”

            The man sighed wearily and held his hands up in a placating gesture.  “If you mean a vampire, then yes, I am.  But I assure you, I mean you no harm.”

            Dean scoffed and ended up coughing on his own blood.  “Yeah, just like your buddies, right?”

            The man’s lip curled in disgust.  “They and I are _not_ on friendly terms, and I have better things to do with my time than beat defenseless men in alleyways.”

            “Hey!” Dean growled.  “Not defenseless.”

            Dean could practically _feel_ the man rolling his eyes.  “Apologies.”  His eyes were shadowed, but still Dean could sense the man’s gaze raking over him.  “Will you allow me to assist you?”

            Dean struggled to sit up, but couldn’t manage it until Castiel slipped an arm behind Dean’s back and helped him.  “What do you want from me, if it’s not to kill me?”  Dean frowned at Castiel and tried to distance himself from the man’s grasp.  “If you think I’m gonna let you bite me as payment, you’re out of your fucking mind.” 

            Castiel chuckled and it gave Dean goosebumps. “I don’t want anything from you except for a name?”

            Dean considered lying, but in the end, decided that it probably didn’t matter.  “Dean,” He gritted.

            “Dean.”  His name sounded elegant and sinful on Castiel’s lips, and Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes at himself.  Now was _not_ the time to be having those kinds of thoughts.  “You could say I have a soft spot for the underdog, Dean.”  His fingers flexed against Dean’s back.  “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

            Dean had enough dignity left that he refused to allow Castiel to carry him, even though the vampire assured him he was able.  “That’s not the point, dude,” Dean protested.  “I can walk.”  Castiel was wise enough not to mention that Dean could barely hobble along without his support.

            Dean recognized the sleek Mercedes parked under the flickering street light when they approached it.  Bobby had done the maintenance on it, and though it wasn’t Dean’s style, he could appreciate the craftsmanship of the thing.  Castiel popped the back door open and helped Dean to crawl inside.  He wasn’t surprised to find that the interior was covered in black leather, though he was grateful for the warm, clean scent when he stretched out across the seats.  When Castiel took up his position behind the wheel, Dean drew enough strength to jokingly ask “Aren’t you worried about blood stains on the upholstery?”

            He wasn’t expecting Castiel to seriously reply “A little blood doesn’t bother me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            That was how Dean found himself in the lair of a strange vampire.  Well, okay, maybe _lair_ was a little harsh.  The guy apparently owned a _bookstore,_ of all things.  At least, that’s what he murmured to Dean as he helped him through the back door and up a narrow staircase into a tiny, spare apartment that gave Dean’s a run for its money. 

            Only when they were under the harsh fluorescent lights in the bathroom and Dean was seated on the edge of the tub, was Dean able to really get a good look at Castiel’s face.  The man’s hair was disheveled again, and his lips were pinched in a serious, straight line.  But what really caught Dean’s attention and had him sucking in a startled breath were Castiel’s eyes.  They were ice blue, and almost seemed to be glowing with an other-worldly intensity.  If Dean didn’t know any better, that detail alone would have alerted him to the fact that this man was really a monster.  “Your eyes!”  He croaked, jerking away from Castiel.

            Castiel raised his hands in surrender and took a step back.  “I apologize if they frighten you.”

            “They’re like… glowing, dude!”

            “I know.  I’m afraid it’s because of the blood.  I’m sorry, but it’s an involuntary reaction.”

            “Whatever.  You better not _bite_ me, man.”

            Castiel huffed again.  “I thought we’d already _been_ over this?  I don’t want to hurt you.”

            “Well good.  Besides, one of the bastards that did this to me said we uh… werewolves… taste like mud to you guys.  So keep that in mind, buddy.  I won’t even _taste good,_ if you decide you want to take a sip.”

            Castiel chuckled.   “Thank you for the warning, however, I’m afraid that Azazel was exaggerating.”

            “What?!  What is _that_ supposed to mean?”  Castiel turned away and started digging through the bathroom cabinets.  “Seriously, man.” 

            Castiel turned back to him with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some bandages in his hands.  “Strip.”

            “What?!”  Dean almost choked on his tongue.  All he could do was stare up at Castiel, terrified, as his heart beat erratically against his ribs.  He had the uncomfortable realization that Castiel could almost definitely hear the hammering of his heart.

            Castiel merely quirked an eyebrow at him, however, and in a slightly bossy voice, asked “Would you rather die of infection, then?”

            Dean fixed his eyes suspiciously on the vampire as he grudgingly pulled his shirt over his head with a hiss.  Castiel’s strange glowy eyes followed the movement, but his expression remained the same.  “The pants are staying on.”

            “Fine.”

            Dean shivered at the first swipe of warm water over the trail of blood that ran from his face to his torso.  The tension in the confines of the bathroom was thick enough to drown in, but Dean managed to keep himself from panicking, and Castiel’s touch was surprisingly gentle and methodical as he cleaned Dean’s wounds.  The rubbing alcohol stung, and Dean couldn’t help the whimper that escaped his lips when Castiel brushed over a broken rib.  The vampire’s eyes snapped to his at the sound, but a moment later, he carried on like nothing had happened.

            Castiel patched him up as best as he could, and informed Dean “You shouldn’t need any stitches.  You are lucky that you heal quickly.”

            “Yeah, thanks.”  After the bandages were all secured, Dean pulled his dirty, blood-soaked t-shirt back over his head.  “I really need to get going.”

            Castiel stared at him, assessing, for a moment, before he offered, “I can give you a ride.”

            “No thanks, I’ll walk.”

            Castiel folded his arms over his chest.  “Dean.”

            “Look man, I’m grateful that you helped me out and all, but uh… you’re still a vampire, okay.  I’m not exactly eager to let you know where I live.”

            Castiel’s jaw ticked, and Dean knew that the vampire wanted to protest.  “What if something happens to you on your way to your home?”  Despite the stubborn set of his jaw, his voice remained calm.

            Dean chuckled mirthlessly.  “If someone else wants a piece of me tonight, hell, they can have me.  I’m too fucking tired, and I just want to sleep.”

            Castiel’s eyes flashed at the words and he licked his lips unconsciously.  Yeah… that was definitely Dean’s cue to leave.  “Alright, well… I’m gonna go now.  See you around.”

            “Be careful, Dean.”  Castiel murmured, but he didn’t try to stop Dean from leaving.

 

 

 

            As Dean slowly made his way home in the wee hours of the morning, clutching his sore ribs, he thought to himself that of all the nights since he realized he was a monster, tonight was the most surreal.  How the hell did he get himself into situations like this?

 

            As he tossed and turned on his hard mattress, sleep evaded him, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t get away from the memory of glowing blue eyes.

 

 


	2. The Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)

Three Months Later

 

 

            Harvelle’s Diner made the best burgers, hands down.  Dean glanced out of the window where it overlooked the river, before he took another large bite of the hot, juicy patty layered in bacon and cheese.  He didn’t bother stifling the moan the flavor pulled from his throat, and he allowed his eyes to flutter shut in pleasure.   Didn’t matter that this place was a serious distance from the shop—it was totally worth the walk. 

            When Dean opened his eyes for another bite, it was to find Cas staring at him, as per usual.  Dean swallowed and held up the sandwich.  “Are you sure you don’t want some, man?”

            Cas rolled his eyes and leaned back on his side of the booth.  “Dean,” he murmured under his breath, “you know I don’t eat.”

            Dean slurped from his large glass of coke to wash the burger down.  “Yeah, but don’t you get bored just… sitting there?”

            Cas shrugged.  “I enjoy watching you eat.”

            Dean sighed and sat his burger down.  He fixed Cas with his best incredulous look, and reprimanded “Cas—we’ve been over this. You can’t just SAY shit like that.  It’s creepy, okay.”

            Cas, bastard that he was, just smirked.  “My apologies.” 

            Dean snorted.  “Whatever.  Can’t expect you to act like a civilized human being after all.”  Dean ignored the burger for the moment, instead turning his attention to the pile of delicious, crispy fries. 

            Cas folded his hands on the table in front of him, long fingers lacing together gracefully.  “And why is that?”

            Dean swept a fry through a blob of ketchup before popping it into his mouth.  “You’re a creature of the night, Cas.”

            Cas huffed, but his lips quirked up in the hint of a grin.  “And you’re overly dramatic.”

            After that, Cas allowed Dean to finish his lunch in relative silence, and instead turned his gaze out toward the river, where random pedestrians were walking along the sidewalk in the late-afternoon sun. 

            Only after Dean had pushed his empty plate away from himself did Cas turn his attention back to the man.  “Have you had anymore troubles recently?”

            Dean glanced around the diner before sighing and slumping forward in his booth.  “I guess it’s what you’d expect when the neighbors hate your guts and want you to move.”  He ran a hand through his hair, and though Cas knew Dean wouldn’t say it, he could sense the man’s agitation in the slight tremor of his hands.  “I mean, they haven’t actually _done_ anything to me since that night, but, uh… sometimes I feel like I’m being watched, ya know?  Like… I just get that prickling feeling on the back of my neck.  Most of the times when I look, there’s no one there, but sometimes… well, sometimes there’s one of ‘em watching me.  I dunno, just sucks, ya know?”

            Cas hummed his understanding.  “You know, there is a solution to your problems.”

            Dean rolled his eyes.  “Don’t start with that stuff again, Cas.  I told you—it wouldn’t work.  You’re kidding yourself if you think it would.”

            “Why not?” Cas protested.  “Have you even considered my offer?”

            “Yeah, I have, and I still think you’re crazy.  I mean, how the hell do you expect that putting two monsters in a small space together will make them _more_ normal?”

            Cas frowned at Dean across the cluttered table.  “We could help each other.  Be each other’s… support system, if you will.”

            “What do you even need a support system for, anyway?  I mean, haven’t you been clean for a couple years now?”

            Cas flashed Dean a rueful smile.  “Yes.  And every single day is a brand new challenge.  It is not… easy, to live how I do.”

            “Why not?  I mean, you still,” Dean lowered his voice even further “drink blood, right?  Animal blood?”

            “Of course.  But it is not the same.”

            “How so?”

            Cas flicked his eyes to Dean’s empty plate.  “Image that you are surrounded by hot, succulent hamburgers every single day, easily within your reach, but you must be happy living on nothing but canned Slimfast shakes.  They’re enough to keep you alive, but they’re not what you really want.”

            Dean’s eyes had grown wide.  “Damn.”  He muttered.  “But uh… _I’m_ not a hamburger, right?”

            Cas smirked.  “No, Dean.  You are most assuredly _not_ a hamburger.”

            Dean huffed a relieved breath.  “Well, that’s good to hear.  Still, though, I don’t see that it would improve our situations.  I mean… no offense, man, but your apartment is pretty tight quarters, and uh… much as I like you, that whole hamburger analogy doesn’t inspire confidence, ya know?”

            “We could find another place.  It wouldn’t have to be at the bookstore.  In fact, a couple properties near to my store have recently been put on the market.”

            Dean jerked his eyes to meet Cas’s pale blue ones.  “You’re serious.”

            “Of course I am.  What do you think I’ve been saying for the last couple weeks?”

            “I dunno, man.  I mean… I figured… I dunno.”  Dean shifted uneasily on his side of the booth.  “Not that I’m not grateful, but uh… why would you want to live with someone like me, anyway?”

            Cas pursed his lips in annoyance.  “Well, aside from the obvious benefits that I’ve just mentioned, I enjoy your company.  Living alone gets tedious, and I don’t exactly have many friends these days.”

            “Right.  After the whole… break with tradition thing, right?”

            “Yes, exactly.  The other…vampires…of this city do not approve of my life choices.”  Cas tapped his fingers on the table top.  “And there are also the obvious benefits to you.”

            Dean slouched in his seat and folded his arms over his chest.  He quirked a brow at Cas.  “And tell me again about these benefits.”

            “The most obvious is that you can move out of the part of town where vampires want to kill you.”

            “By moving in with one.”

            “I assure you, it’s more logical than you make it sound.  Living with me would afford you a certain…protection.”

            Dean scoffed.  “Don’t need protection, dude.  I can handle myself.”

            “Of course.”  Cas dipped his head and toyed with Dean’s crumpled straw wrapper.  “And what of the full moons?  I know you must have grown tired of the insecurity—never sure where you’ll go, or where you’ll end up.  Not knowing if you might come across an innocent during the night.  Having to walk back to your home, or drive back while your entire body screams in agony.  Having no one around to…tend to you, if it is needed.”  Cas glanced up at Dean through his thick black lashes.  “I could be there for you, Dean.”  He watched the bob of Dean’s throat as he swallowed thickly.  “If the both of us aren’t spending all of our time just trying to make it through the day, then we can spend more energy on actually trying to _live_ in this world.”

            Dean’s pulse had steadily increased throughout Cas’s speech, and it jumped again just before Dean pushed himself up from his seat.  “Sorry man, it just won’t work.”  He said gruffly before pulling his jacket on.  “Catch you later.”  And then he was gone, walking quickly away from the diner. 

            Cas watched him go.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            After the night that Dean had almost been killed by vampires, he started seeing them everywhere.  He didn’t think that they were suddenly stalking him, necessarily, just that he was finally aware of something that he’d dismissed for too long before.

            Dean lived in a bad part of the city.  While he didn’t live smack-dab in the middle of the vampires’ turf, he lived close enough that it made him uncomfortable.  Their random appearances while he walked home after work let him know that he wasn’t wanted there.

 

 

            He never meant to see Castiel again after the impromptu and awkward rescue.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for what the guy had done for him; Dean liked to think of himself as a realist.  He knew that he probably would have died that night without Castiel’s intervention.  But the way the guy had looked at him back in the apartment had given him chills, and if Dean was being honest with himself—which he’d really rather not—he wasn’t sure what kinds of chills those were.  Dean wouldn’t deny that there was something magnetic about the vampire, and of course he had the whole dark and mysterious thing going for him.  It wasn’t like Dean swung that way, or whatever, but hey, even he could acknowledge when a guy was packing a hell of a lot of sex appeal.

            The thing is, Castiel wasn’t satisfied with having their association end with that one strange night.  He came calling to Singer Auto two days later, saying that there was a strange rattle under the hood of his Mercedes.  It was a lie, of course.  After Dean had cornered him in the waiting room while Bobby looked the car over, he’d admitted as much.  “I wanted to check that you had recovered.”  He told Dean, his strange blue eyes hidden by dark glasses.

            “I’m fine.”  Dean growled.  “I don’t need you checking up on me.”

            “My mistake.”  Castiel said with a tilt of his head. 

            Dean thought that was the end of it.

           

 

 

            A week later, Castiel showed up at Singer Auto with a take-out bag from Harvelle’s and a sincere sounding “I brought you lunch.  Can we talk?”

            Dean had been hesitant to give the vampire any more of his time, but after reluctantly taking the food from him, he’d sat and listened while the guy talked.  He talked a little bit about his life while Dean ate.  Castiel was old, and for a long time, he’d lived like most vampires do—free of moral concern, and drenched in blood.  But then he’d gone on to assure Dean that years ago, something had happened in his life and he’d decided to change his ways.  He was supposedly on the straight and narrow now—drinking only animal blood and making a living through his relatively successful bookstore. 

            He was an awkward dude and he spoke like he was from some Hollywood historical flick.   But as the guy talked, Dean noticed that he was fidgeting, twisting his fingers in the hem of his white silk shirt.  He was nervous, Dean realized.  It occurred to Dean that maybe this guy honestly wanted to be friends—after all, he figured a blood sucker on the outs with his own kind probably didn’t have a ton of social connections.

            The second time that Castiel stopped by for lunch, Dean decided to just stop fighting it. 

 

 

            And somewhere along the way, between weekly lunches with Castiel and a panicked phone call early one morning when Dean woke alone and bloody in the woods miles outside of the city, Cas sort of became his best friend.

            The world was fucking ironic that way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The day after the full moon, Dean pulled the Impala into his space in front of his apartment building and after wrenching himself from the driver’s seat, proceeded to slowly, painfully drag himself up to the second floor where he stayed.  He was surprised to find a small cardboard box with his name on it sitting in front of his apartment door.

            He retrieved it and hauled it inside with him.  He was wary to open it—in fact, he would rather have showered, eaten, and passed out, and allowed himself to forget that it even existed.  But a slow curl of anxiety started in his belly just looking at the damn thing, so Dean decided he might as well get it out of the way so he could relax.

            He flicked open his pocket knife and opened the package.  The moment he pulled the box open, he wished he hadn’t.  The smell of blood and dead flesh almost knocked him on his ass—his senses were already overloaded from the night before, and it was too much. 

The scent alerted Dean to what it was.

            A bloody dog’s heart sat in the bottom of the box, with a sticky, red-smeared note perched on top.  Dean reached into the box with shaking hands and withdrew the note.  He unfolded the paper to find two words: “You’re next.”

            Well, shit.

 

 

 

            The tinkle of a bell announced Dean’s entrance when he pushed through the front door of the tidy shop named _LIBRIS_ that sat amid a row of two-story brick buildings on a reputable street.  Dean had barely made it two steps into the bookstore before Cas appeared from behind one of the shelves, his brow creased in concern.  “Dean?” 

            Dean’s hands were still shaking, even after the drive, so he shoved them in his pockets.  Cas’s gaze followed the movement before he met Dean’s eyes again.  “What is it?”  Cas prompted,

            Dean cleared his throat.  “Does uh… does your offer still stand?”


	3. 115, St. James Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy, because I am having waaaay too much fun with this :D Let me know what you think, I'm rabid for your commentary ;)

         

 

 

            Their realtor was a thin-lipped tight ass in a pant suit named Naomi.  Cas had made all of the appointments, so Dean wasn’t sure what back story he’d given the woman, but he kinda wished he’d asked now. 

            This was the third property they’d looked at.  It was a three-story red-brick building located on St. James Street, just two blocks away from Cas’s store.  The front door was painted a dark chocolate color, with white trim.  The brass numbers 115 announced the address.

            Naomi held the front door open and ushered them inside, though she didn’t manage to hide the curl of her lip as they stepped past her. 

            Dean’s first impression of the place was that it was big.  He’d been living in a match-box apartment for the last year or so, and he’d counted himself lucky that he didn’t have roaches in the place.  This house was something completely different.  It had high ceilings, and the walls were painted warm colors, accented by large windows that let in a surprising amount of light.  The room was already furnished with a thick cream rug, a coffee table, and black leather couches. 

            Dean glanced to the side where Cas had shuffled in close behind him.  Now he pressed close to Dean’s side, their shoulders brushing as they took in the layout of the living room.  Dean gave a sharp nod toward the furniture.  “What d’ya think, Cas?  Looks like your kinda place, huh?”  Cas afforded Dean a quirked brow and a slight smirk.  Dean grinned. 

             Naomi cleared his throat behind them.  “The house has three bedrooms, as well as a study on the third floor.  The kitchen is this way….” 

             Cas held his hand up, and Naomi paused.  He tilted his head to the side, like he could hear something that the rest of them couldn’t.  “Does this house have a basement?”

             Naomi shuffled through her papers.  “Yes, actually.”

            “I would like to see that first.”

           Naomi frowned but led the way.  A narrow staircase descended into the depths of a plain basement.  It wasn’t overly creepy, but it wasn’t inviting either.  It was gray, cold, and consisted of slabs of cement.  Dean and Naomi both watched, bemused, as Cas made his way to the foundation wall and pressed a palm to it.  He glanced back over his shoulder, blue eyes alight with excitement.  “Do you think this room could be sound-proofed?” 

            Naomi flicked her gaze between the two of them before she cleared her throat and said “I suppose.  There are materials that you could line the wall with.  What, um… what were you thinking?”

           Cas flashed her a perfectly innocent smile that Dean didn’t buy for a second.  “Media room.”  Cas gestured expansively.  “I admit, sometimes I like it a little loud.”

           Dean snorted and Naomi shifted uncomfortably on her feet, and clenched the papers tighter in her hands.  “Yes, well.  I’m sure there are options for what you’re looking for.  Shall we take a look upstairs now?”

           Cas smiled beatifically.  “Yes, let’s see the rest of the house.”

           Dean elbowed Cas in the ribs on their way back up the stairs and hissed “What the hell was that all about?”

           Cas raised his eyebrows and gave Dean a significant look, but he didn’t answer the question.

 

 

 

            The kitchen was bright, clean, and spacious, and part of Dean was actually really excited about the idea of having a decent kitchen of his own to cook in.  Cas barely glanced at the room, prompting Dean to roll his eyes at him. 

            Dean was also really pleased to see that there were two bathrooms, so the two of them wouldn’t have to share.  He wasn’t sure what kinds of grooming a vampire required, but Dean knew that after the full moon, things could get a little messy for him.  He’d prefer not to bleed all over a bathroom that he had to share with a vampire.  Even just thinking it gave Dean a flare of panic.  _What was he thinking, really?!  Moving in with a vampire for Christ’s sake.  Man, his life had gotten weird._

           The rooms were all of a decent size, the house was in a decent location, and Naomi assured the both of them that “The neighborhood is very accepting of… alternative lifestyles.”  Of course, he could see she was fighting her own disgust when she said the words.  Dean wanted to roll his eyes at her, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, especially when Cas was pressed close enough that they were brushing again.  Seriously, the guy had no clue about personal boundaries.  “So, what do you think?” Naomi asked, her tone bordering on bored.

           “Could we have a private moment to discuss it?”  Cas asked.

           “Certainly.  Take your time.  I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”

           After Naomi left, Dean turned to Cas.  “So, what do you think?”

           “I like the place.  It has a lot of potential.  I think we should do it.”

           “What?  Just like that?”

           “Yes.  Do you like it?”

           “Well yeah….” 

           “Then let’s go give Naomi the good news.”

           When they pushed through the front door, they found Naomi having a cigarette on the stoop.  She stamped it out quickly and smiled her wide, false smile at them. “Well, what have you decided?”

           Cas smiled at her, showing a hint of teeth.  “We’ll take it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            It didn’t take them long to move all of their stuff into the house.  Neither of them honestly had that much, which kind of threw Dean for a loop.  Of course, he’d abandoned his life as he knew it and left home with only what he could fit in the Impala, so _he_ didn’t have a lot, but he sort of figured an immortal being who’d already been alive for a couple centuries would have more physical…baggage.  But Cas didn’t.  He only owned slightly more than Dean (unless he had it stashed away somewhere—and really though, _who knows_ with vampires?). 

            The whole process was still a bit surreal.  Dean thought there would be months still of price negotiations and paperwork, but he wasn’t counting on Cas to outright _buy_ the damn house.  He dropped 150K in cash like it was no big deal, and that was when Dean realized he was going to have to seriously reassess what he thought he knew about the guy.

            Apparently, that whole paying in cash thing really sped up the buying process.  They didn’t have to wait months.  They didn’t have to swim through a sea of paperwork.  They were in and out of their meetings so fucking fast it made Dean’s head spin.  And they were able to move into the house the next weekend.

 

 

 

            Dean still thought the whole thing was weird.  It’s not like Cas didn’t already have a perfectly fine place to stay.  _Dean_ was the one with the issue, and he still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that Cas was willing to shift his own life around for Dean’s benefit.  The pessimist in Dean kept wondering _why_ Cas was doing it.   Of course, they’d become good friends over the last three months, but still… why the hell would someone as powerful and rich as Cas want to waste their time on someone like Dean?  Especially since, you know, he’d heard that werewolves and vampires were supposed to be mortal enemies, and in completely different social classes besides.  Apparently, their friendship amounted to royalty mingling with the riff-raff.

            Still, when Dean emptied his old apartment and turned the keys in to the manager, he was happy to get the hell out of there.  He had no idea what his new life was going to be like, but it sure as hell had to be better than receiving dog hearts at his front door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The house was furnished and move-in-ready, and besides little things that needed to be done to personalize the place, it was perfect.  Hell, it was definitely the nicest place that Dean had ever lived in.  Dean’s bedroom was located on the second floor, and it was roomy enough to fit a queen sized bed, a dresser, chest of drawers, and still have space to spare.  A large window provided light and afforded Dean a view out onto the street at the front of the house.  It was pretty awesome.

            He stowed his meager belongings in his bedroom then followed the stairs down to the first floor, where he found Cas unpacking things in the kitchen.  Dean leaned against the door jamb and watched in bemusement as Cas pulled a coffee pot from the box.  “What do you even own a coffee pot for, man?  I thought you said you don’t need to eat.”

            Cas turned, finally acknowledging Dean, even though Dean knew that the vampire could hear him no matter where he was in the house.  “I don’t require food to survive, however, that doesn’t mean I can’t indulge if I so wish.  And I happen to enjoy the taste of coffee.”

            Dean quirked a brow.  “Really?”  He shoved away from the wall and came to stand next to Cas to inspect the coffee maker.  “Hmmm… this is a nice one, too.”  He turned to find Cas doing that staring thing again.  He’d grown used to the feel of the vampire’s eyes on him over the course of their blossoming friendship, but at times like this, he really wished he knew what was going through the guy’s head. 

            “I’ve made an appointment for a contractor to come and take a look at the basement for the sound proofing.”

            Dean frowned.  “Oh yeah.  I meant to ask you what that was all about.  A media room, Cas?”

            Cas rolled his eyes at Dean and heaved a deep sigh.  “Do you really not know, or are you just trying to frustrate me?”

            Dean widened his eyes.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

            “It has thick walls and it is unfurnished, Dean.  Once it is sound proofed, you could potentially spend your full moons there.”

            “ _What?!_ ”

            “The idea never crossed your mind?”

            “Well… no, not really.  I mean, I figured, crazed supernatural animal—I should probably be running through the woods somewhere.”

            “Where you could potentially run in to innocent campers?  I thought that was one of your concerns.”

            “Well, yeah.  But I didn’t think there was an alternative.  I mean—who the hell keeps a werewolf inside the house?”  Dean laughed without humor.  “Part of me still can’t even believe we’re having this conversation.”

            “Under normal circumstances, it would be inadvisable, I admit.  You would require someone who knows about your secret to lock you up and unlock you in the morning.  And someone to potentially handle you should something… happen.”

            “Exactly!” 

            Cas gave Dean another look like he was severely trying his patience.  “Well, Dean, you are lucky enough that you know just the person for that job.”

            “You?  You think I’m gonna let you chain me up in a basement?”

            Cas shrugged like it was a perfectly normal suggestion.  “I don’t see why not.”

            Dean was on the verge of protesting further, when their conversation was interrupted by the sound of another voice coming from behind them, scoffing “Oh God, just what I need.  A kinky new freak show.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, Naomi totally thought Cas was planning on turning the basement into a sex dungeon. Lmao. Though maybe she wasn’t far off….


	4. The Ghost

 

 

            Dean turned around slowly, his mouth hanging open in shock. 

            A petite blonde woman, decked in jeans, a black t-shirt, and combat boots stood in the doorway, hip cocked, arms crossed in front of her.  She rolled her eyes, unamused.  “Go ahead, tall, dark and handsome.  Everyone can see that you can’t wait to get that guy in chains.”  She snorted.  “And you, Ken Doll, jeez… can you _be_ any more oblivious?  This guy seriously wants a piece of you.  Ew.”  She wrinkled her nose in disgust and then her voice rose in a sudden whine.  “Oh God, I just hope the two of you have the decency to keep your kinky fun times in the basement.  Seriously.  I mean, I might be stuck here, but I never signed up for _this._ ”

            The woman delivered her tirade loudly, completely unconcerned that she had just barged into their house.  “Aww, look at you,” The woman said, voice sickly-sweet as she waved at Dean.  “You look so damn _scandalized_ at the idea of being tied up.”  She laughed.  “Bet he has all sorts of fun with you.”

            “ENOUGH!”  Dean shouted, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.  He pointed at the woman, incredulous.  “Seriously!  _What…the…fuck, lady?!_ ”

            The woman clacked her teeth together suddenly and glanced back and forth between the two of them.  “Oh—oh God,” she gasped, covering her mouth.  “You can… see me?”

            “Um, yeah!  What the fuck are you doing in our house?!”  Dean shouted, voice higher pitched than he’d intended.

            “Dean,” Cas started, laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

            Dean shrugged him off.  “No, I wanna know!  What are you doing here, and where do you get off spewing that shit in the middle of our kitchen?  You’ve got some balls, kid, and some pretty twisted fantasies too, I might add!”

            The woman’s hands were trembling where they still covered half of her face, and her brown eyes had grown wide and shocked.  “I—I’m sorry,” she gasped.

            And then she disappeared into thin air.

            Dean leapt back and collided with Cas, who of course had still been standing too close.  “What the hell?!”  Dean searched the kitchen frantically, sure that this was some sort of trick.  “Where did she go?  I didn’t just imagine that, did I, Cas?”

            Cas grasped Dean’s shoulder again, tighter this time, his fingers digging in enough to get Dean’s attention.  “Dean,” Cas prompted.  Dean turned back to him, utterly confused and freaked out.  Cas, though, looked calm, if a little sad, which didn’t make any sense.  “She’s a ghost.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Dean slammed back his third shot and gasped around the burn of the whiskey.  Cas regarded him with his usual calm and it pissed Dean off.  He slid a shot over to Cas.  “Drink.”

            “Dean,” Cas protested.

            “I’m not talking until you drink it, Cas.”

            Cas rolled his eyes but tipped the whiskey back.  “Are you happy now?”

            “No!”  Dean hissed, motioning the bartender to bring another round.  “What the hell, man?!”

            Cas sighed and ran a hand through his unruly black hair—it was a surprisingly human action, and it gave Dean pause.  “If it makes you feel any better, she seemed to be just as surprised as we were.”

            Dean downed another shot and grimaced.  His taste buds had changed after he’d become a werewolf, and the whiskey just wasn’t doing it for him anymore.  He hoped it would at least get him decently drunk.  “It doesn’t make me feel better, Cas.”

            Cas laid a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder.  A moment later, he dropped his hand, allowing his fingers to brush over Dean’s back as he went.  “We should talk to her.”

            Dean cast Cas a sideways look.  “Dude, she’s a ghost.”

            Cas quirked a brow at Dean and frowned.  “Yes, well.  You’re a werewolf and I’m a vampire.  Seems a bit hypocritical of you.”

            Dean actually chuckled into his empty shot glass.  “God, I can’t believe this is my life.”  Cas tilted his head to the side like a curious kitten and Dean snorted.  “If only Dad could see me now.”  Cas wisely didn’t comment.

            Dean downed another couple shots before he was buzzed enough that the bar started looking a little fuzzy and the voices of the other patrons had turned into a constant drone in the background.  “We gotta get rid of her, Cas.”  Dean mumbled.

            Cas frowned, a line creasing his brow.  “It is her home too, Dean.”

            “She’s dead.”

            “Even more reason for us to be tactful about the situation.”

            Dean slid off of his bar stool and pushed closer to Cas so that he could really _look_ at the vampire’s eyes, which were a dull blue tonight.  “You’re a strange guy, Cas.”  Dean murmured.

            “You’re drunk.”  Cas put a hand against Dean’s chest, pushing him back.  “Let’s get you home.”

            Dean allowed Cas to wrap an arm around his shoulders and lead him from the bar; in fact he was almost grateful that someone else was steering for the moment.  It was all too much right now.  “Can’t go back there, Cas.”

            Cas’s voice was oddly soothing when he whispered “She can’t hurt you, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Dean was leaning heavily against Cas’s side when they pushed through the front door and were met with the chaos of broken dishes and upturned furniture.  Anguished wailing rent the air and Dean had to cover his ears.  It was enough to make his hair stand on end and his blood run cold.  Dean forced himself to straighten and he followed Cas through the living room until they could see the dim outline of the woman sitting on the stairs, hunched into a ball with her face buried in her hands.  Each cry sounded like it was ripped from the very heart of her. 

            There was nothing for them to do but stand there and listen to the ghost sob out her pain.  She looked small and fragile amid the chaos, and though Dean was wary, he suddenly felt terrible. 

Neither knew what to say, so they didn’t say anything. 

            Eventually, the ghost must have realized she was not alone, because she sniffled and raised red-rimmed eyes to the two of them.  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “so sorry.”  Her whole body shook with another round of choked-off sobs.  “I didn’t mean to.”  Dean couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the woman, not even to take in the full extent of the damage to their house.  He was glued to the spot, immobilized by shock and a sudden wave of grief for this unknown woman who couldn’t have been any older than Sammy.

            Cas finally left Dean’s side and took a step toward the woman.  His voice was calm and gentle, a tone that Dean had never heard from him before, when he asked “What’s your name?”

            The woman raised her eyes again, and in the glare from the streetlights streaming in through the living room windows, Dean could see tear tracks glinting on her pale cheeks.  She gulped down a huge breath and wiped her ghostly tears away with the backs of her hands.  She straightened her shoulders and met Cas’s gaze.  “Jo.”

 


	5. Creatures of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this chapter, I had a ton of fun writing it! And I'd love to hear what you all think so far :)

 

            Jo disappeared with another anguished sob right after she told them her name, and they weren’t able to get any more information from her.  She didn’t simply pop out of existence like Dean had seen on cheesy horror movies—instead, she seemed to dissolve into the air around her, until she simply was not there anymore. 

            After she was gone, Cas glanced at Dean from the corner of his eye, and when Dean caught his gaze, he shrugged.  “She’ll be back.”  Cas assured.

            Dean frowned.  “That doesn’t make me feel any better, Cas.”

            Cas shrugged.  “I’ve got to be to the store early in the morning.  I’m going to go to sleep.”

            Dean’s mouth dropped open.  “You’re a creature of the night, Cas.”  Cas quirked a brow at him.  “I didn’t even think that vampires slept.”

            Cas rolled his eyes.  “Do you get all of your information from Hollywood films?”

            Dean snorted.  “’Course not.  I get some of it from books too.  _Dracula_ , for instance.  He was one of your homeboys, right, Cas?”

            Cas frowned.  “Dracula was a work of fiction.”  He took a step closer to Dean and leaned into his space, his face uncomfortably close.  “I’m not.”

            Dean huffed when the vampire pulled away, and as he watched Cas ascend the stairs toward the bedrooms, Dean hollered “Creature of the night!”  The only reply was the sound of Cas’s door opening and closing, as calm as you please.  Dean snorted.  “Pretty sure the dude’s a disgrace to vampires everywhere.”  Dean flipped his phone open to check the time.  “Jesus, it’s not even 11:00 yet.” 

            Dean glanced around and seemed to suddenly realize he was alone in a house that was most definitely haunted.  He was soooo not able to deal with this shit right now.  He retreated to his room finally, only because it seemed like the safest place to be, without leaving the house altogether.  And really, where else did he have to go?  He’d turned over his apartment.  This house was it, now.  And anyway, if the ghost…Jo… felt like messing with him, there was a vampire sleeping next door.  Dean scoffed again.  At this point, Dean was pretty sure that any badass vibes Cas had ever thrown out were an aberration.  The dude owned a bookstore, drank animal blood from the butcher shop a couple blocks away, and was in bed before midnight.  How much of a threat could he really be?

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean was staring blearily at the wood grain of the table and had a spoonful of soggy cereal halfway to his lips when Jo appeared in the seat across from him and Dean flailed so hard he almost knocked his much-needed coffee over.  “Fuck!”  He shouted, scrambling back, chest heaving, and suddenly wide awake.

            Jo looked up at him glumly.  “Sorry,” she muttered.

            Dean folded his arms over his chest and took another step back from the table. He coughed, and tried to grab at his remaining shreds of dignity. “What do you want?”  He demanded.

            Jo bit her lip and attempted to right Dean’s spoon, though her hand only passed through it.  “To apologize, mostly.  For last night, I mean.”

            “For tearing up our living room, you mean?”

            “Yeah, that.  And the rest.”  Dean frowned at her and quirked a brow to encourage her to continue.  She scowled at him and motioned toward his empty seat.  “You can sit down, you know.”  Well, to do anything else now would make him look like a coward.  And he wasn’t, really… Dean was just _cautious_.  Still, he took his seat and regarded her across the table.

            “The rest?”  He prompted.

            Jo frowned and tried to flick a crumb across the table.  “I’m not really the crying kind.  At least… I wasn’t, before.”  She glared up at Dean, as if daring him to contradict her.  He wisely kept his mouth shut.  Apparently satisfied, she continued, “It’s just… I’ve spent months here, all by myself.  I mean, I realized I was a ghost and accepted my death and all that jazz on my own, and hell, after a few weeks of trying, I made peace with the fact that no one could see or hear me anymore.  And I was fine, really.”  Dean raised his brows incredulously and Jo chuckled.  “Okay, so maybe not _fine_ , but I was okay, ya know?  And then you two stroll in here, spouting insanity, and suddenly you can see me and I’ve landed two new roommates.  It was a little overwhelming.”

            Dean scratched absently at a spot on his arm.  “Yeah, I guess.  I mean, it’s not the same, but I can sort of relate.”

            Jo snorted.  “I really doubt it.”

            Dean bristled.  “Hey, I’ve had to deal with some serious shit too.”

            “I’m dead.  Your argument is invalid.”

            Dean rolled his eyes.  “Whatever.  I don’t even know why I care.”  He tentatively reached for his coffee and took a sip, watching out of the corner of his eye as Jo plucked at a thread on her t-shirt.  “So, how’d you die?”

            Jo snorted.  “Jeez, forward much?”

            “Oh… is that like… offensive to ghosts or something?”

            “Do you sweet talk all the girls this way?”

            That actually pulled a chuckle from Dean.  “Okay, sorry if that was a dick thing to ask.  How’m I supposed to know?”  They were silent again for a while, and Dean drained his mug.  “Do you remember, though?”

            Jo shook her head softly.  “Yeah, I remember.  I don’t really wanna talk about it, though.”

            “Fair enough.”  Dean decided that he definitely needed another cup of coffee for this conversation.  He still couldn’t quite believe that he was having it in the first place—over breakfast, of all things.  After he took a sip of the fresh cup, he studied Jo for a moment.  “You’re pretty lacking in social graces yourself.” 

            “What are you talking about?”

            “Um… when you showed up yesterday.  You were spouting some pretty rude shit here in this very kitchen.”

            Jo actually cackled and clapped her hands in apparent glee.  “Yeah, well, I’m not gonna apologize for that.  You two made that waaaay too easy.”

            “You’re a jerk.”

            “Whatever.  I’m the one that has to live with you kinky sons of bitches now.”

            Dean huffed.  “See?  That’s my point.  Me and Cas ain’t like that.”

            “Sure.  So all the talk about chains and basements was what?  Hypothetical?”

            Dean rolled his eyes.  “ _Of course_.  You hear that, but not the rest.  _We’re monsters!_ ”

            Jo gazed at him steadily, completely unmoved by the revelation.  “Yeah, I heard something about vampires and werewolves.  You role play too?”

            “Oh my God!”  Dean huffed, and slammed his coffee cup down on the counter.  “I am a werewolf!  Cas was talking about fitting this place out for my transformations.  He is a vampire.”

            “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

            Dean shot her his most condescending look.  “Says the fucking ghost.”

            “Whatever.  I’ve been watching the two of you for a couple of days.  Call it what you want to call it.  That boy wants a piece of you.”

            Dean shifted uncomfortably on his feet, but he couldn’t come up with something to say, so he refilled his coffee cup and left Jo alone in the kitchen.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Libris_ was always quiet on Tuesday mornings, which Castiel appreciated.  Tuesdays were the days he’d long ago set aside for unpacking his new shipment and arranging the new books neatly on the shelves.  On Tuesday mornings, he was generally lucky if he got two customers before noon.

            Unpacking the boxes was a simple task that nevertheless brought Castiel a level of happiness. It was almost like unwrapping a gift to see which books had finally arrived.  He enjoyed reading the synopses of the ones he was unfamiliar with, and gently flipping through the ones that he knew well.  On days like this one, Castiel could let his thoughts wander while he made his rounds through the shelves, placing new books and straightening older ones. 

            He enjoyed the solitude.  Though, for a time there, it had become almost smothering.  It had been hard to leave Lucifer and the world that he belonged to, but after… well, Castiel knew that he had no other choice.  He’d had to leave that place, and those people.  Something had changed in him, and whether they wanted to acknowledge it or not, Castiel had to. 

            The hardest part had been the transition to animal blood.  For almost a year, he’d felt like he was starving, and still, he’d swallowed it down in thick, heavy gulps.  But it never satisfied.  Even now, years later, there was a hunger in his veins that was always present, persistently gnawing at him.  The worst part was that he knew how easy it would be to silence the craving.  There were several blood dens around the city that he could have visited for just that very need.  There were any number of people at a given moment that Castiel could take with little effort.

            And at one time, he would have.  It had been easy, in those days.  Sometimes he glamoured his victims to convince them to go with him, but most of the time, he hadn’t needed to.  They’d wanted it.  They’d followed after him like puppies, eager for whatever he was willing to give them, eager to please him.  Before, he’d been brutal, merciless.  He’d reveled at the feel of hot blood splashing against his skin, bubbling in thick streams over his lips.  He’d loved it.

            But all that was different now.

            He’d opened the bookstore to try to afford himself some level of peace and respectability.  He didn’t need the employment, of course—Castiel had accounts in several countries, and still he continued to make investments.  He would never want for money, he’d made sure of that a long time ago.  But the bookstore managed to balance him in a way that nothing else did.  And still… it hadn’t been enough.

            Some might have called it a lucky accident that brought Dean to Castiel, but Castiel knew it was more than that.  Once, Castiel had been a religious man, very devout, and now, even after everything, part of that man still existed under his skin.  Despite the hells he’d walked through, the ones he’d created, Castiel’s faith would not die. 

            It was providence that had led Castiel to the alley way that night.  Dean Winchester, the cocky, reckless werewolf mechanic was exactly what Castiel had needed.  Of course, he hadn’t realized that until after Dean had already fled from Castiel’s apartment that night.  But there had been something about the man that called to him, on a level deeper than blood, and who was Castiel to ignore such a calling? 

            He could admit it to himself, if no one else, because Castiel had a policy about being honest with himself these days.  He was attracted to Dean.  Dean was a handsome man, after all, with his broad shoulders and muscular back, his freckles, his deep green eyes.  And of course there was the temptation that came whenever Castiel was near to a living person—the scent of Dean’s blood was always present, and sometimes it was harder to ignore than others, and while Castiel was most certainly not a saint, he had enough will power for this.  Dean was right, of course: werewolf blood was repellant to vampires.  But Dean’s was different.

            It was more than that, though, more than his animal instincts that drew him to Dean.  He genuinely liked the man.  Dean was smart and brave, and kind.  He swore too much, and tried to bluff his way out of trouble.  He held a darkness inside him, and yet he managed to joke and smile every single day anyway.  And despite everything, he had been accepting, and proved himself a true friend to Castiel.  The kind of friendship that Dean offered… he’d never had that before.  It was a precious thing.  And Castiel meant to protect it, even from himself.

 

 

 

 

            Castiel was at the back of the store when the bell over the door tinkled.  “I’ll be right there!”  He called, dusting his hands off on his pants as he emerged from the shelves.  He plastered on a smile and as he approached the counter, was already saying, “How can I help…“ when he felt the words die in his throat.

            “Hey there, Clarence.”  Meg drawled.  She stood in the middle of his shop, blouse dipping low to reveal the edge of a lacy bra, hands tucked unconcernedly in the back pockets of her jeans, pointed tips of her boots digging into the soft fabric of his throw rug.  “It’s been a while.”

            Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat and behind it, there came a flood of rage that he was barely able to suppress.  “You’re not welcome here.” 

            She smiled, sickly-sweet and tossed her curly brown locks.  “It’s public space, sweetheart.”

            “Get out.” Castiel growled.

            “Aww, don’t be that way.  I just wanna talk.”  She dragged her gaze over his body and smirked.  “Promise.”  She glanced around the store and nodded to herself.  “So this is where you choose to spend your time nowadays.  Not too shabby, but I gotta admit—it’s a bit boring for my taste.” She quirked a wicked brow.  “Used to be boring for your tastes as well.  Remember all the fun we used to have?”

            Castiel cleared his throat and pushed those memories into the darkest corner of his mind.  “I’ve changed.”

            Her response was a deep, throaty chuckle.  “Sure you have, sweetheart.  I miss you, ya know?”

            “Did Lucifer send you here?”

            Meg smiled serenely.  “I’m a free agent.”

            Castiel snorted.  “You can tell him I meant what I said.  I’m not coming back.”

            Meg huffed.  “What do you have here that’s so great, anyhow?  I know how you…feed, Castiel.  It’s a disgrace you know.  And disgusting to boot.  Why do you do that to yourself?  It would be so easy to come back.”

            “Enough, Meg.”  Castiel took a calming breath.  “Leave.”

            Meg scowled now, her angelic face turning sour.  “Don’t think I haven’t heard the rumors about you, Castiel.”  She took a menacing step toward him and sniffed.  “You even smell like dog.”

            “My business is none of your concern.”

            “Isn’t it?  Does he let you feed from him?”  Meg sauntered closer, lifted her hand and dragged her sharp nails over the white cotton of his dress shirt.  “Does he give you what you need?  What you crave?”  She stepped closer so that she could breathe into his ear, “Is he good for you like I was?”

            Castiel fought to control the sudden surge of blood lust that spiked through his veins at her words.  Another denial was on the tip of his tongue when the bell above the door tinkled once more and Dean burst into the shop, obviously frazzled.  “Hey, Cas—“  he started, but the words died in his mouth when he took in the scene in front of him.

            Meg flicked her tongue along his neck then pulled back, sadistic grin fixed on Dean as she drawled “There’s the little bitch now.”


	6. Like a Bad Joke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I just wanted to say THANK YOU for your incredible patience with me during the last few months. It was a busy, rough time for me, but now it's over, and I've got the whole summer free for writing, so you can expect more regular frequent updates! I hope you enjoy the chapter :)

 

 

            Dean paused, shocked, just inside the door.  There was a woman—sort of hot with dark, curly hair, tight clothes, and a decent rack—leaning against Cas, and whoa… did she just lick his neck?  She turned cold eyes on Dean and flashed sharp teeth as she said “There’s the little bitch now.”

            She moved too fast for Dean to keep up with, just a blur, and then he was being slammed back into the wall near the door, and her nails dug into his chest, like she was gonna slowly claw through to his heart.  Dean gasped and gathered his strength to try to shove her off, but never got that far.  Less than a second later, she was ripped away from him and flung across the room.  Cas was a dark blur before he came into focus in front of the woman, pressing her into the wall, his hand a vice around her throat.  His eyes were glowing blue, menacing, and his voice was a dark growl when he said “Touch him again and I’ll rip your throat out.”

            The woman sneered and shoved against Cas.  “Really, Castiel, you’re gonna be like this?”

            “Really.”

            The woman tipped her head back and cackled, and the sound sent shivers up Dean’s spine.  “Wow, Clarence, you let that doggy put you on a leash, didn’t you?  He’s got you whipped.”

            Cas snarled at her, his fingers squeezing.  “Get.  Out.”

            The woman ducked away from Cas and stormed from the bookstore, casting her dark, threatening gaze at Dean as she went.  As she passed by him, she promised, “See you around, Deano.”

            Dean slumped against the wall after she closed the door behind her, all of the energy suddenly sapped from his muscles.  Dean blinked, and when he opened his eyes, Cas was in his space, crowding close.  Dean never knew Cas could move like that.  Cas lifted a hand to Dean’s face, but hovered there uncertainly for a moment.  His eyes still glowed eerily with what Dean had come to recognize as bloodlust.  “Dean,” he rumbled, “are you alright?”

            “Yeah,” Dean murmured.  “’M fine, Cas.”  Dean closed his eyes to steady himself and sucked in a deep breath.  The full moon was that night, and all of Dean’s senses were heightened.  He could feel the strange electrical current that Cas gave off, and he could smell him…well, his scent wrapped around Dean, so close, almost smothering.  Cas was standing toe to toe with him right now, just an inch or so shorter, but making up for the lack of height with all of the badass vibes that he was currently throwing off.  Dean took another deep, steadying breath then opened his eyes again.  “Who was that, Cas?”

            Cas didn’t even seem to realize how close he was leaning—their chests were almost brushing with their proximity.  “Meg.  She is an old…associate of mine.”

            Dean chuckled humorlessly.  “She seemed like a bit more than an associate.”

            Cas cocked his head.  “What do you mean?”

            Dean shrugged.  “Well, she was sort of groping on you, man.  And, uh… she licked you.”

            Cas’s eyes shuttered, even though he didn’t physically move.  “It’s nothing.”

            “So, what?  You’re not gonna tell me?”  Dean snorted.  “Figures.”  He rolled his shoulders.  “Do you mind, Cas?  You’re breaking the personal space rule again.”

            Cas took a reluctant step back, his hand finally falling away.  “I apologize.”

            Dean shrugged and straightened his rumpled shirt.  “Nothing to apologize for.  I’ll catch you later.”

            Cas frowned.  “What did you want to tell me when you arrived?”

            Dean flashed a flat smile at the vampire.  “Doesn’t matter.”  He turned to leave, pulling the door open.  The bell tinkled above his head.

            “Wait, Dean.”  Cas implored, taking another step closer.  “Tonight is the full moon.  We need to make arrangements.”

            Dean waved Cas off.  “You know what, Cas?  Not your problem.  I’ll figure something out.”  Then he left the shop, pulling the door shut behind him to cut off any further comments.

 

 

 

 

 

            It was a bit of a drive to get to a decent track of forested land, but Dean managed alright, and hell, he needed the drive to get his head straight before the sun went down.  The last 24 hours had been a bit of a rough patch for him.  Not only did he learn that ghosts were real, he learned that the new house he’d bought with his strange, vampire roommate was haunted by a rude female ghost named Jo who alternated between crying and providing crude, scathing commentary of Dean’s life.  And then he’d witnessed whatever the hell that was in the bookstore that morning.  Meg, or whatever her name was, all up in Cas’s space, practically pawing at him, and Cas not doing anything about it.  Whatever.  Not like Dean was his keeper or anything, but she didn’t really seem like his type.  Cas was a bit of an introvert, and while he could rock the tall-dark-and mysterious thing, he certainly didn’t give off the dark and sinister vibes of some of the other vamps that Dean had had the unfortunate luck to run into.  And this Meg… well, not only was she violent and obviously had something against Dean, she seemed a bit too… sexy, for Cas’s tastes.  Her skin-tight clothes and the provocative way she moved didn’t seem in keeping with the suit-wearing bookstore owner that Dean had come to know.  But then again, maybe he was wrong.  Cas obviously didn’t share everything with Dean.  And didn’t that just…. Well, Dean was a big boy.  He was over it.  Really.  It wasn’t like he needed Cas to hold his hand or anything.  He’d gotten along fine before he met the vampire, and he could sure as hell get along fine without him now.

            By the time that Dean had found a nice, covert place to park his Impala and stash his belongings, Cas had called five times.  Dean snorted, shaking his head, before he turned his phone off and popped it in the glove compartment.  Whatever.  He was busy with other things, like his impending transformation into a monster. He didn’t have time to deal with Cas’s bullshit.  After everything was packed safely away, Dean shouldered his simple backpack that contained a change of clothes, a bottle of water, and his car keys, and he began his hike into the woods to get as far away from civilization as it was possible to get… in the outskirts of Philadelphia anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Jo was brooding pensively in Dean’s bedroom, flicking idly through his beat-up book collection, when she heard the front door open and shut.  One of the perks of being a ghost, she’d learned, is that she could appear and disappear at will within her house, and she took advantage of that little talent at that very moment. 

            She appeared in the kitchen behind a stiff-shouldered Castiel who either didn’t notice her or decided to ignore her as he reached into the fridge.  Jo crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, content to spy on him for a moment, and…alright, enjoy the view that he provided.  He might be a kinky freak, but he wasn’t bad to look at.  Neither was Dean, now that she thought about it. 

            Jo had been pretty open minded in life and now that she was a ghost, she figured that she was even more open minded, but it still caught her by surprise when Castiel turned around with a clear container of blood in his hand and then proceeded to pop it open and dump it into a coffee mug.  As if that wasn’t gruesome enough, next Castiel popped the mug into the microwave and proceeded to nuke the blood.  Her eyes would have popped out of her head if she wasn’t, ya know, _dead,_ and she gulped, taking a step back.  “Oh God,” Jo moaned, “You really think you’re a vampire, don’t you?”

            Castiel turned smoothly to face her and cocked an irritated brow.  “I am a vampire.”  He flicked his gaze over her appraisingly for a moment before he turned back to the microwave.  “Was there something you wanted, Jo?”

            “Ugh, you’re pretty blasé about a ghost hanging out in your kitchen, aren’t you?  And a vampire?  Really?”  She scuffed her foot against the kitchen tiles and then tilted her head heavenward.  “What have I gotten myself into?”  She mumbled.

            Castiel pulled his mug out of the microwave a second before it would have beeped annoyingly and proceeded to stir the grisly contents with a teaspoon.  He took a long sip and closed his eyes appreciatively.  He licked his lips delicately and then took a seat at the kitchen table like his actions were completely normal.  “You’re not the first spirit I’ve seen.”  He quipped, finally raising his eyes to Jo again.  “And yes, I am a vampire.  I won’t apologize for it, and I won’t pretend I’m not one.  So if you are expecting either of those things, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

            Jo rolled her eyes and stomped up to the table, leaning her palms against it to make herself look more threatening.  “Well, aren’t the both of you just full to the brim with sass?”  When Castiel simply continued to stare at her, she flopped down in one of the chairs and stared back at him.  “So I suppose you also think that Dean is a werewolf?”

            Castiel inclined his head minutely.  “He is.”

            Jo eyed the mug of blood with distaste as Castiel took another deep pull of it.  “So, uh… if what you guys say is true….”  Jo snorted.  “This is like the opener for a really bad, awkward joke, isn’t it?  A werewolf, vampire, and ghost share a house…?”  She leaned back in her chair and kicked her booted feet onto the table, despite the glare that Castiel flicked her way.  “Well, my afterlife just got a hell of a lot more interesting.”  She eyed her slightly ragged nails then smirked at the so-called vampire.  “So where is your boy?”

            Castiel sighed dramatically and pushed his half-full mug of blood away.  “In the woods, I assume.”

            Jo frowned.  “Why?”

            “Tonight is the full moon.  Dean has gone to change.”

            “I thought you guys were talking about using the basement for that?”

            “It will take some work before the basement is ready for Dean’s transformations and anyway, I believe he is upset at the moment.”

            “Upset?”

            Castiel cleared his throat and glared at the table-top, lips pouty.  “There was an incident at the store today.”

            Jo quirked a brow.  “Oooh, drama.  What did you do?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            It happened like it had been happening every month for more than a year: Dean wandered as deep into the woods as he could find, stripped naked, and waited, shivering and afraid, at the mercy of the rising moon.

            The pain was excruciating.  It was worse than anything that had ever happened to Dean before the curse, and there was nothing he could think to compare it to.  His body tore, his bones breaking into a million pieces and reforming in a different shape, his muscles screaming as they ripped and then re-knit.  He fell to his hands and knees, screaming at the indescribable pain that racked his body and consumed his mind.  His body contorted and re-fused into something else, something it never was before.  All of his senses changed—he was drowning in scents and new sights, and he felt everything _so differently._ The sensual revelations clashed with the torment of his body and Dean was trapped in an excruciating limbo for long moments, helpless to the change.  Helpless.  And then, when it finally happened, when Dean finally made the change from Dean to wolf, his mind was erased as well and he ceased to worry.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

            When Dean’s eyes flickered open in the early morning light, he was naked, sore, and streaked with blood and mud, lying in a pile of leaves and grass that was also splashed with red.  His head pounded and he had cottonmouth from hell, and it hurt just to breathe.  But all of that ceased to matter the moment a man strode through the trees toward Dean and threw a bag at him.  Dean caught the bag, recognizing it as his own, and scrambled backwards, immediately on alert.  “Who are you?”  He barked, voice rough from the transformation.

            The man held up his hands placatingly.  “Relax, Dean.  I’m a friend.”

            Dean gaped and stumbled back.  “How do you know my name?  Who are you?”

            The man leaned lazily against a tree.  “I’m a werewolf, like you.  Well, more experienced than you, but that’s another conversation.”

            Dean suddenly realized how exposed he was—naked, unarmed, in the presence of an unknown man who knew what Dean was.  “Why are you here?  Who are you?”

            The man flashed an easy smile.  “My name is Gordon Walker, and I’m here to help you.”  Gordon turned his back and called over his shoulder, “Now put on some pants, man, and we can have a chat.”


	7. Memories of Ourselves, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beginning to turn into a monster, so I broke it in half. The second half will be coming soon :) I hope you enjoy! (Also, brace for some tragic back story here.)

          

 

           Castiel sat on his neatly-made bed, leaning against the headboard, legs extended and feet crossed in front of him, the picture of casual, except for the cell phone clutched in his hand and the way he constantly refreshed the screen to double check for missed messages.  Nothing.  Castiel sighed and thumbed the option for Dean’s number once again.  He held the phone close to his ear and frowned at the tone that played back at him: it was some rock music, with a man with a high pitched voice singing “I'm your night prowler/ asleep in the day/ Night prowler/ get outta my way.”  Castiel didn’t know whether he should be amused or insulted by Dean’s song choice, but even in his current mood, he could appreciate the bluesy music that accompanied the lyrics.  Castiel listened to the tune until the call went to voicemail, again.  Castiel sighed and said “Dean, it’s me again.  I understand that you are probably still upset, but please… just let me know that you are safe.”  Castiel paused for a moment, and then added, hopefully, “I guess I’ll see you at home?”  He flicked his phone closed before he could over-think his last question, and he stared at the device gloomily.

            “Man, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”  Jo asked from her place just inside Castiel’s bedroom door. 

            He glanced up at her in annoyance.  “It’s rude to invade someone’s bedroom without permission.”

            Jo snorted.  “I’m dead—I don’t care about being polite.  And anyway, this was my house first.  So fess up.  Haven’t heard from your boy yet?”

            Castiel glared at Jo’s word choice.  He twisted his phone in his hands for a moment, then sighed and shoved it in his pocket.  “Dean is a grown man.  He doesn’t have to call me if he doesn’t want to.”

            Jo shook her head in sympathy.  “You’re worried about him.”  She toed at Castiel’s carpet and said “You gonna go look for him?”

            Castiel stood from his immaculately made bed and straightened his shirt sleeves and waistcoat.  “I do not think Dean would appreciate my…concern.  And besides, I have an appointment to keep.”

            “Oh yeah?”  Jo pressed, leaning forward into the vampire’s space.  “Where you headed?”

            “The homeless shelter over on 21st street.”

            Jo gaped, eyes wide.  “Oh my god, are you going to go eat one of those poor homeless people?”  She strode further into the room, the air rippling around her as she approached Castiel.  She jabbed at him, and they were both shocked to find that her finger sort of made contact with his chest.  “You are, aren’t you?  You’re going to go hunt for blood at the homeless shelter.”  She glared up at him.  “Can’t let you do it, bucko.”

            Castiel quirked an amused brow down at the blonde ghost.  “I appreciate your… vehemence…however, it is unwarranted. I do not feed from humans and I haven’t for a very long time.  However, I do occasionally volunteer at the homeless shelter and I’m going to be late.”

            Castiel pushed past Jo and she stared after him as he went, dumbfounded.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Philadelphia, 1826_

           

            Castiel tugged his ratty coat close to his body and hurried down Chancellor Street toward Rittenhouse Square.  The sun had already slipped below the horizon and snow flurries whipped around Castiel.  It had been a cold, gray day, and it was going to be an even harder night.  The wind blowing in off the river was cold enough to chill Castiel to the bone, and he suspected that the police officers would be patrolling the park for the poor unfortunate souls who sought shelter there on nights like this one.

            Castiel was one of those souls.  He had come to the city of Philadelphia six years earlier with his mother and younger brother, Samandriel, to try to make a better life for themselves after his father had drowned in a storm that thrashed Cork harbor.  His mother had sold everything they owned except for the clothes on their backs and she’d used the money to buy passage on a ship to the young but promising United States of America.  There had been several other families from Cork and other Irish on the ship that took them from the green shores of Ireland to their new home, their only hope, at the port of Philadelphia.

            The journey was long and arduous, filled with soaking wet clothes that smelled like salt and vomit, and excrement, and horrors that Castiel had sought to shield his younger brother against.  Their mother had given Castiel and Samandriel all of the food that she could spare, which ended up being most of it, just so that the boys could eat.  They were all weak, barely hanging on, by the time the ship reached port, but Castiel’s mother had suffered the worst, and she’d grown ill during the journey.  She died two days after arriving.

            Philadelphia was a large city, and it was rough, like a jungle for two boys who didn’t know the terrain.  Castiel, a man already at 17, struggled to care for his ten year old brother, and he was determined to do whatever it took to keep them both alive and healthy.  They found a cheap room, barely big enough for a bed and a chest of drawers, near the docks where they’d disembarked. 

            Within a couple days of being in the new city, Castiel found a job unloading ships.  During the days while he was working, Samandriel went out and begged for whatever handouts he could get, which usually was not much if anything at all, but the boy wanted to contribute something and it was all he could do: he was too small, too scrawny to get hired on at one of the mills.

            Life was hard, but they managed to make it through for two whole months, just long enough for Castiel to believe that maybe their lives really were turning around.  But then Samandriel came down with a terrible cough that wracked his whole skinny body, and he couldn’t seem to shake it.  Castiel knew that his brother needed to see a doctor, and so he took him, against the advice of their neighbors, who told him it was foolish and pointless.  The doctor refused to see Samandriel until he was paid, and though Castiel gave him everything he had, it wasn’t enough.  He begged.  He offered to do whatever it took, _anything,_ to get his brother the help he needed.  He offered to _sell himself_.  Still, it wasn’t enough, and the doctor turned them out. 

            Castiel took Samandriel home, and spoon fed him some broth, and held him as he coughed so badly that his thin body shook and he wheezed.  Castiel held his hand, and prayed, and refused to leave him, except when he went out to try to find help one more time.  He even went back to the doctor, to beg again, but the man refused to even answer his door.  Castiel dragged himself back home, feeling tired and sad, but determined to fight through it.

            He stayed with his brother, and held him, petting his hair all through the night.  Samandriel died the next morning, slipping slowly into death while he slept.

            Castiel sat there with him for a long time—he wasn’t sure how long—but finally, he contacted the people necessary to take care of his brother.  And when he finally went back to the docks after his brother was buried, he found that he no longer had a job.  And word spread fast in the neighborhood.  The day he lost his job, he lost his room as well.

            Within the space of a week, Castiel lost everything that he had left in the world, and he found himself homeless and destitute on the streets of Philadelphia, in a neighborhood that saw him as Irish trash; a waste of space.

            That was how Castiel found himself on the streets, begging for money or food, spending his days walking the city, learning it.  He learned the places he could find scraps of food, the places where he might catch a couple hours of sleep without having to worry too much for his own safety—not that it was a priority for him, anymore.  Castiel often thought that it might be better if he just died as well, but despite these thoughts, he hung on. 

            The priests at St. Michael’s sometimes gave him bread, or offered him a place to sleep for a few hours, and they heard his confessions, and blessed him when he asked for it, and despite all of his hardships, Castiel could not let go of his faith.  The priests were good, holy men, but there were _so many_ people who needed their help in the city that Castiel could not bring himself to impose upon their hospitality very often.  There were others that were much worse off than Castiel.  After all, despite everything, he was young and relatively healthy, and he could travel through the city looking for opportunities.

            Though Castiel sometimes found jobs, they never lasted, and the city was a fickle place, though it was also a place that Castiel had learned to navigate.  No matter how his luck seemed to be improving, it always turned back on him, and he would be back to the cold, crowded streets, doing what he had come to know well.

 

 

 

            That was how Castiel found himself, six years later, on the cold autumn night, huddling against a copse of trees in Rittenhouse park, praying that the local police officers took pity on him or ignored him, and allowed him to stay in the mediocre shelter he’d found.  He observed the world around him while he huddled in on himself, trying to conserve his body heat.  He blew at his stiff fingers and he saw his breath on the air.  The park was mostly abandoned at that point, but every so often, someone else hurried through the paths on their way home.

            Castiel had become almost invisible over the years; the other poor had no time for him and the rich pretended they couldn’t see him so that they would not have to deal with him.  Castiel had learned to work with it, to appreciate it—it allowed him to snag a loaf of bread every so often, or grab a few coins when he bumped into strangers.  But it was also the reason why Castiel was so surprised when the man approached him that night.

            He was tall and blonde, rich by the look of his long woolen cloak and scarf, and the shine on his shoes.  He smiled charmingly as he approached, and when he was within an acceptable distance, he tilted his head at Castiel and asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

            Castiel glanced around for a moment, surprised to be addressed by anyone at all, but most especially by someone like this man.  Castiel shrugged and replied in his deep voice, with lilting accent, “Yes, but what am I to do about it?  ‘Tis a cold night.”

            The man nodded.  “Honest.  I like that.”  He blatantly looked Castiel over for a moment, then said “You could go someplace warmer though, if you’d like.”

            Castiel raised his eyebrows and appraised the man back.  “And why would you do something like that for someone like me?”

            “Bold.  An admirable trait.  Allow me to be bold as well, then.”  Another smile.  “You are a beautiful young man, and interesting as well.  I would hate for that to go to waste.”  The man held out a gloved hand.  “My name is Luke…Himmel, and I have a proposition for you.”

            Castiel eyed the man for another moment before he grasped his hand and shook.  “Since we’re bein’ honest, why don’t you tell me the terms of your proposition?”

            Luke clutched Castiel’s fingers in his firm grip and said “It’s simple.  Come home with me, and provide me with your…company for a while.  And in return, I will feed you and make sure you have a warm place to sleep.”

            Castiel considered for a moment—he knew what sort of company this man wanted, and he knew how dangerous it could be, but in that moment of considering, his stomach growled loudly at him, and his mind was made up.  “You have a deal.”

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, Dean's ringback tone for Cas is "Night Prowler" by AC/DC. He thinks he's hilarious. :)


	8. Memories of Ourselves, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for dubcon situations, violence, blood & gore, & Castiel doing bad things.

 

Philadelphia, 1826

 

            Luke kept a spacious apartment that overlooked Rittenhouse Square, and though it didn’t surprise him, Castiel found that he still appreciated the discovery.  The space was decked in richly colored, soft fabrics of burgundy, gold, and pine.  The apartment was well lit with candles and gas lights, and a roaring fire in the hearth warmed the space deliciously.  Castiel hadn’t been truly _warm_ since the summer, and he found himself grateful for it, no matter what he would be expected to give for the privilege.

            Luke waved Castiel in ahead of him, and he went, knowing that Luke could be insane, could be dangerous—Castiel was taking his life into his hands in offering this man his trust—but he didn’t care anymore.  Castiel was beyond that.  “Relax,” Luke prompted, coming in behind Castiel.  “Can I offer you a bath?”

            Castiel glanced back over his shoulder at the man, assessing.  Then he gave a curt nod.  “I’d appreciate it.”

            A moment later, Luke pulled a cord and a woman hurried in to ask what her master required.  Soon, a large brass tub was arranged in one of the smaller rooms and filled with clean, hot water.  The woman hurried out as soon as her task was finished, and Luke followed Castiel into the room. 

            Castiel had never done this before, even though he’d been tempted in some of his darker hours.  He’d reached the point where he had nothing left to offer except for himself, and though he’d never overtly thought of what it might mean to give himself to a man, the idea did not fill him with the sort of hellfire dread that it perhaps should have.  Neither did the idea of selling himself. 

            Castiel had always thought of himself as a devout Catholic, and he still did, but then, this wasn’t so much a matter of principle as it was of staying alive.  And Castiel hoped that God could forgive him for doing whatever he had to do to keep himself alive.  With that final thought, Castiel shoved his worries away and began to strip the ragged, dirty clothes from his slender body until he stood in the room completely naked.  He didn’t waste any time in climbing into the tub of steaming hot water and sinking down into it.

            If Castiel had to guess at what Heaven felt like, he’d say it was a hot bath after freezing for weeks.  He let out a contented sigh and tipped his head back as the water sloshed over him.  Next to the tub, Luke watched Castiel’s every move, but he made no attempt to touch him.  Castiel found it strange, but he wasn’t going to complain.

            He cleaned himself slowly, luxuriously; he was loathe to leave the warmth of the water, but he knew that he would eventually have to.  He was scrubbing the dirt from his hair when Luke cleared his throat and asked “What is your name?”

            Castiel thought about lying, but then figured he might as well give this away as well.  “Castiel Collins,” he replied, pausing to gauge Luke’s reaction. 

            The other man simply tipped his head.  “Beautiful name.  It’s an angel, isn’t it?”

            Castiel nodded.  “My mother loved angels.”

            “How old are you, Castiel?”

            Castiel found that he actually had to stop and think about it for a time—the days had all blurred together since Samadriel’s passing, and he’d lost track.  “Twenty-three.”

            “You look older than that.”  Luke commented, his eyes trailing over Castiel’s visage.  “Still beautiful, of course, but…older.”  He tipped his head.  “You’ve had a hard life.”

            Castiel snorted and continued his bathing.  “That’s the way of it.”

            Luke continued to watch him for a few more minutes before rising from his perch, saying “Let me bring you some clean clothes.  I’ll return in a minute.”

            Castiel shrugged, utterly unconcerned whether Luke was telling the truth or not.  He was still surprised, though, when the man returned with clean linen trousers and a dark red tunic—the clothes looked like they cost more than Castiel could ever afford.  He took them from Luke with slightly shaky hands, but the fabric felt wonderful against his skin as he pulled the garments on.  God…Castiel hadn’t been clean in so long.  After the clean, soft clothes had settled on his body, Castiel raised his bright blue eyes to Luke’s own ice blue ones and asked “What would you like now?”

            Luke smiled, soft and easy, and said “Let me feed you.  You look like it’s been a while.”

            Again, Castiel felt a mix of suspicion and a lack of care.  So far, Castiel’s evening was too good to be true, and he knew that surely all of this goodness would come with a hefty price.  Still, he followed Luke back into the main room with the roaring fire place.  He found that in their absence, someone had situated a small table near to the fire and piled it high with dishes of meat, potatoes, vegetables, and a bottle of what appeared to be wine.  Castiel glanced over his shoulder to where Luke was following closely.  The man gestured to the table and murmured, “Please…help yourself.”

            Castiel did not need to be told twice.  He slumped into a chair and began to pile a plate full of food, which he intermittently shoved in his mouth instead.  His fingers and teeth couldn’t move fast enough to fill his empty, abused belly.  Luke settled in another chair and watched as Castiel devoured the food with absolutely no decorum—his only reaction was an eyebrow raise and a slight smirk.  Castiel swallowed thickly and asked “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

            Luke waved his concern away.  “I’m not hungry at the moment.  Go ahead.  It’s all yours.”

            Even through Castiel’s eagerness to eat and the slight worry that the food might be poisoned or something, he managed to flash Luke a grateful smile.  The food was delicious.

 

 

 

            Castiel drank deeply that night.  He’d never had a wine that tasted as sweet as the vintage that Luke poured into his goblet and refilled whenever Castiel drained it.  Castiel’s defenses fell away more and more with each swallow, just as he grew warmer and his cheeks grew redder.  He felt so _good,_ so comfortable and utterly at ease, so that he didn’t care about protecting himself and keeping his secrets anymore.  He answered all of Luke’s questions with chuckles and sighs.  He told him about his childhood in Cork, where he and his father were fishermen and they were poor but happy, until the sea swallowed his father up.  He told Luke about the terrible, perilous journey from Ireland to Philadelphia, and the death of his mother.  He admitted his ever-present sorrow and grief over the death of Samandriel; he told Luke that he still blamed the greedy doctor for refusing to help his little brother.

            Throughout the course of his reminiscences, Castiel was aware of Luke drawing ever closer.  First, he laid a comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder when he recounted his father’s death, and then the movement turned into a hand touching his own, and the careful stroking of fingers up and down his back.  Castiel had known that it was coming, and he’d mentally prepared himself for it; the wine and food helped to ease the way toward whatever it was Luke wanted from him.  Castiel wasn’t exactly practiced in the art of sex, but he would try.  Luke drew nearer, so that the tips of his fingers drew delicate shapes on the skin of his throat, and he leaned forward, whispering “Stay with me.”

            Castiel swallowed thickly and tipped his head back, laughing.  “For what?”

            “You are young and beautiful, and it saddens me to know the life you’ve had to live thus far.  Trust in me, Castiel, and I will give you a second chance.”  He leant forward and brushed his lips against Castiel’s throat.  They both shuddered.  “Be my companion, Castiel, and I will give you everything.”

            Castiel bit his lip and his eyelids fluttered shut.  “Everything?”

            Luke groaned and wrapped his arms around Castiel to hold him tight against his own body.  Castiel’s body was warm and languid, and he didn’t fight.  “Everything.”  Luke growled, a second before he sank his teeth into Castiel’s throat, tore his veins open, and drank him down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            When the world came back to Castiel, it did so in an overwhelming swirl of color and noise and frantic, desperate hunger.  He was in darkness, chained to a bed with shredded, bloody sheets.  Castiel screamed and tugged at his restraints, but they would not give.  He screamed himself hoarse: for release, for food, for _something_ to cure his pain and fill the gaping hole he felt inside him now.

            Sometimes he was aware of a man… _Luke?..._ coming into the room, and pressing something hot and wet against his mouth.  It was salty, coppery, tangy, and Castiel gulped it down.  It was the best fucking thing he had ever tasted in his entire life, and he was ravenous for it.  “Please!”  He screamed, when it was taken away.  “Please!  More!  God, I’m so hungry!  Please!”  But the screaming and the begging never got him anywhere.  Luke closed the door and he was alone again.

            Castiel knew that time must surely have passed, but he felt detached from it.  Was it a matter of hours, or days, or even years?  He didn’t know.  All he knew was the hunger and the jagged edge of madness that threatened to tear him to pieces.

            In that dark room, Castiel turned into something else.  The veneer of civility was ripped from him, and perhaps even his humanity was.  He howled for blood like a wild beast, and he rattled his chains until they bit bloody scars into his wrists.  He snarled when the door was opened, and only quieted when he was allowed to drink his fill, though even then it was never enough.  Never.  Hunger, and starvation seemed to have followed Castiel from the streets to this place.  He didn’t care what he had to do to ease the feeling inside of him, because the moment the warm bubble of blood reached his tongue, Castiel was wrapped in a sweet euphoria that he knew must be something either holy and divine or so utterly full of sin that there was no redemption.  In that dark room, Castiel didn’t care which it was.

            It seemed like an eternity before Castiel’s mind was clear enough to understand the words that Luke spoke to him.  Words like “vampire,” “mine,” and “second chances.”  It took even longer before Castiel was rational enough for Luke to remove his chains.

            Luke explained what he’d done: Castiel was a vampire now, Luke’s companion.  Luke had given Castiel a second chance at life… a better life.  He could teach Castiel all that he needed to survive and be successful.  Not just vampire things, but human things too—he would tutor Castiel in sciences and maths, literature and languages.  Manners.  Charm.  “I will teach you how to blend in, or stand out—how to move among people and get what you want from them.”  Luke ran a hand over Castiel’s pale cheek.  “It will be so easy for you—you’re even more beautiful now.”  Castiel burned with rage and resentment at Luke’s words, at the fact that Luke took Castiel’s life against his will, that Luke turned him into _this,_ a monster _._ That Luke thought he had a claim on Castiel now.  “I’ve given you a new life, Castiel.  You never need to be hungry, or homeless, or poor again.  The world is yours now.”

            Castiel stared up at Luke from under his thick black lashes.  “You think I will be grateful now?  You think I will love you?”

            Luke smiled beatifically at him.  “I think you will be wonderful.  Just wait and see.”

 

 

 

 

            There was no place else for him to go, so Castiel decided to stay, just for a time.  Honestly, he was afraid of going outside on his own—afraid of the newness of every single sensation, afraid of his own cravings.  Luke began to teach him all of the things that he’d promised, and he gave Castiel a lavish, comfortable room in his apartment.  He dressed Castiel in expensive clothes—dark suits with waistcoats and ties.  He taught Castiel how to speak to inspire confidence and trust.  He began to teach Castiel how to hide his Irish accent and speak like an Englishman, and an American, instead.

 

 

 

 

 

            Castiel took all of Luke’s lessons to heart.  He thought about his life and death, and new life as he stood in Luke’s apartment and stared out of the window, overlooking Rittenhouse square and the expanse of buildings and people that made up the city of Philadelphia.  He pressed a hand against the glass.  Luke came up behind him and murmured “It’s all yours now.”  He petted a hand over Castiel’s hair and down his back to rest at the dip in his spine.  “I gave it to you, Castiel.  Remember that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Luke kept Castiel in the apartment and did not allow Castiel to go out into the world unless he was with him, insisting that Castiel didn’t have enough control of his new instincts yet.  For the longest time, cooped up in the apartment, Castiel was fed blood from a goblet, or from Luke himself, and he was so obsessed with just getting it, that he never bothered to ask Luke where it came from. 

            The first time Castiel went out hunting with Luke, he was horrified when Luke drew a young woman into an alley and snapped her neck before he sank his teeth into her throat and bade Castiel to do the same.  Castiel cringed from the violent murder, but even so, he could not resist for long—the blood called to him.  And after he tasted it, he didn’t care how he’d gotten it.  He just wanted more. 

            Luke explained that Castiel wasn’t a man anymore—he was more than that, better than that.  He’d been raised above the squalor and pathetic circumstances of humanity, so those rules no longer applied to him.  “Would a wolf beg a sheep’s pardon before eating it?”  Luke would ask him, whenever Castiel appeared to flinch from the kill.  “We are gods, Castiel.  We have no need to ask for anything.  The world is ours for the taking.”

            It was a difficult lesson for Castiel, who until recently had counted himself as a good Catholic and valued the sanctity of all life.  He still valued it, but in a much more carnal way.  He appreciated each and every life that Luke snuffed for Castiel’s sake.  Castiel could appreciate that he’d been one of them, that he had also been a desperate, hungry man, who was easily lured by a charming smile and the promise of a meal.  Castiel felt sorry for them.  He understood them.  Castiel determined early on in his new existence that he would never be in that position again—never at the mercy of another, never poor and hungry.  Never again.

 

 

 

 

 

            The more Castiel thought of his new life, the more he inevitably thought of his old life as well, and the innumerable circumstances that led him to this point.  Castiel had made peace with most of it.  The sea had no care, no respect for human life—it was eternal and vast and unknowable—and Castiel held no bitterness over his father’s death.  If Castiel had remained in Cork, he would have likely met the same watery end.  That was just the way of it.  He could also accept the death of his mother—disease did not care who you were.  It took everyone indiscriminately.  Castiel could also recognize that his mother had given what she could to him and Samandriel, and though it still made him sad, he could make peace with that.  Even Samandriel’s illness, while painful, was not what haunted Castiel.  What haunted him was the voice of a doctor, sworn to help people, sneering at Castiel that the money he offered wasn’t enough, and shutting the door in his face.  Twice.

            The more time Castiel spent alone, the more he thought about that doctor, and how some mercy on his part would likely have spared Samandriel’s life, and the ruin that Castiel’s life became.

            One day, Luke left Castiel alone in the apartment while he went to run errands.  Castiel watched from the high windows as Luke disappeared into the city, and once he was satisfied that Luke was gone, he took his opportunity to slip from the apartment.

            The streets of Philadelphia were familiar to Castiel in a way that only home can be—he’d walked these streets so many times over the years that he could have navigated their twists and turns with his eyes closed.  It was different now, with his altered senses, but still…comforting.

            As a poor, resentful man, Castiel had made his way to his old neighborhood many times, and on particularly bad nights, he would stare into the warm, brightly lit windows of the doctor’s home where he lived comfortably with his wife and daughter.  Castiel would brood and wonder at the fortunes of men, that some of them became rich and comfortable while others worked their whole lives and remained poor and wretched.  He would remember his little brother, and the way that he’d died in Castiel’s arms, and he would curse the world, curse the doctor, and sometimes, on very bad nights, even curse God for what had happened.

            Castiel found his way to the doctor’s house easily on the day that he escaped from the apartment, and again, he watched from outside for a moment.  Inside, the old man sat on a sofa with his wife while his daughter reclined on another, stitching a quilt.  Inside, the hunger clawed at Castiel, desperate and full of rage.

            Castiel strode across the street to knock at the door, and he smiled widely, charmingly, when the doctor’s wife opened it.  She smiled back and invited him in, and as Castiel stepped foot into the warm, cheery home, he finally quit fighting against the hunger.

 

 

 

 

 

            Luke found Castiel much later, sitting in the middle of the doctor’s living room on a beautiful rug that was now utterly ruined.  Castiel sat in a puddle of blood—all that was left over after he’d had his fill.  It splashed the lovely, expensive furniture, and gory smears of it painted the walls of the living room.  Castiel himself was drenched in it—his white silk shirt and charcoal gray waistcoat were thick with the dark red stains, and it coated his face and hands and neck as well.

            He’d killed the doctor’s wife first, almost as soon as he was through the door, and then he’d gone after the daughter, who screamed so prettily when Castiel sank his teeth into her throat.  The doctor had yelled and begged and cried, and tried to pull Castiel off of the girl.  Castiel had laughed at him and shoved him away.  It filled him with a sort of sick vindication to know that the doctor now knew what it was like to watch the ones he loved die and be helpless to stop it.  Castiel enjoyed every minute of it.  The doctor was last, and Castiel drew that kill out far longer than necessary, because it felt _so good_ to have that power, finally.  Castiel made a mess because it filled him with joy to do so and he luxuriated in each and every whimper and cry and plea for mercy that he drew from the man’s torn, ragged throat.

            When Luke found him, he was sprawled on the floor, drenched in blood, laughing like a madman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of destiel this chapter, but I promise it will be back with a vengeance next chapter! :)


	9. Wrapped Up In You

 

Present Day

 

            Gordon flashed the waitress a charming smile and said “Thank you,” when she poured steaming cups of coffee for both he and Dean before retreating from their corner booth in a mom and pop diner that Dean had never been to before.  He didn’t particularly want to be there now, either, but Gordon was adamant about having a word with him, and Dean didn’t want the guy to know where he lived.  So Dean had reluctantly given the guy a lift in the Impala with the understanding that they’d stop for coffee at the closest diner and then that would be the end of it.

            Dean felt dead on his feet, like he did after each transformation.  It wasn’t easy to have his whole body bend its shape and alter its physiology in one night just to have it painfully revert back in the morning.  It took a lot out of a guy.  Most of the time after his transformations, Dean would either drive back home, or on particularly bad days, ask Cas to come pick him up.  Once home, Dean would shower and tend to whatever wounds he’d sustained, and do his best to try to repair his clothing.  Then he’d promptly pass out for at least 12 hours, after which he’d rise, ravenous, and devour whatever he could find in his apartment.  He wondered what it would be like to do that now in a house, where he wouldn’t be alone. 

            Dean reached for his coffee and wrapped his hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth of the ceramic on his tired, aching hands.  They’d been claws only hours before.  Blood still caked the undersides of his fingernails, and Dean wondered, remotely, just what sort of damage he’d done the night before.  He took a sip, relishing the burn of the bitter liquid on his tongue.  He sighed, and never taking his eyes from Gordon, asked, “So what is it you think we need to talk about?”

            Gordon fiddled with the handle of his own mug and smiled back at Dean.  “I’ve been watching you, Dean, and I gotta say, man… honestly, I’m surprised you’re still alive.”  Gordon held his hands up in a calming gesture to ease Dean’s oncoming indignant protest.  “Now, don’t get offended…you’re new.  But uh… it seems like there’s a lot you still have to learn about being… what we are.”

            “Yeah, like what?”

            Gordon’s eyes took on a slightly harder look and he said “For instance, not to mess around with vampires.”

            Dean glanced around their booth frantically, surprised that Gordon would just come out and say the word.  Thankfully though, no one was close enough to hear their conversation.  Dean turned back to the other man and glared.  “Yeah, okay, great.  Thanks for the insight.  What else, Captain Obvious?  And by the way, now would be a great time for you to go ahead and explain to me just how exactly you found me.”

            Gordon sighed heavily like dealing with Dean was a great burden.  “Fair enough.”  Gordon took a gulp of his coffee and said “When I was turned, I was sort of…out of it, and hopeless for a while.  It took me a long time to really get my shit together, but once I did, I made it my mission to find others like me, and to help them to cope in any way that I could.  To teach them.”  He smiled and waved the waitress away when she drew near to refill their mugs.  “I drift from place to place, wherever there are signs that a new wolf is in town.  Normally I’d avoid Philadelphia, but people talk, you know, and it sounded like you were in need of some serious help.  So, here I am.”

            Dean frowned.  “What do you mean?”

            “What I mean is, it’s a well-known fact that the vampires run Philadelphia.  But I heard a rumor that there was a new wolf living smack dab in the middle of their territory.  I show up to investigate, and here you are….” Gordon sneered, “hanging with one.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Gordon snorted.  “No need to lie to me, Dean.  Like I said, people talk.”  He stared at Dean meaningfully over the rim of his mug and said “Besides, you smell like him.”  He laughed darkly.  “It sort of reeks, actually.”

            Dean swallowed thickly.  “Like who?”

            “The bloodsucker who’s so obviously got you brainwashed, Dean.  The vampire Castiel.”

            Dean’s heart stuttered.  “What do you know about Cas?”

            “I know everything I need to know.  That vamp is bad news.”

            Dean snorted.  “Bad news?  Cas?”  He shook his head.  “Nah, we must be talking about different guys.”

            Gordon’s face was completely serious and utterly impassive when he said “I assure you, we’re not.”

            “Not all vampires are the same, alright.  Cas… he’s my friend.  The others leave me alone now.”

            Gordon snorted and shook his head.  “Yeah, I’ll bet they do.”  He shoved his coffee away and fixed his dark eyes upon Dean once more.  “You wanna learn about who’s running the show in Philadelphia, just ask your buddy.”

            Dean opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.  There was no way in hell that he and Gordon were talking about the same guy.  And if they were, then Gordon was seriously delusional, because Cas?  Dean’s Cas?  No way in hell was he as bad as Gordon was making him out to be.  He owned a bookstore and went to bed before midnight for Christ’s sake.  Not exactly evil-mastermind type behavior.

            “Alright,” Gordon said, with a pitying smirk on his face, “I can see the bloodsucker has you in his thrall or whatever right now.  But when you get your head out of your ass and you realize that every single one of those leeches deserves a stake to the heart, you give me a call.  I’ll be around.”

            Dean stood abruptly from the booth and slammed a couple dollar bills down in his place.  “Yeah, thanks for the advice.” He barked.  “Feel free to go fuck yourself now.”  Then he turned on his heel and was thankful to be on his way home, finally.

 

 

* * *

 

 

           

            Dean was grateful that there was no sign of Jo when he arrived home.  Honestly, Dean was too tired and pissed off to deal with a meddling ghost on top of everything else at the moment.  All he wanted to do was shower, eat, and then pass out.

            On his way through the eerily silent house, Dean stopped in the kitchen and was surprised to find a note sitting on the kitchen table.  Curiously, he picked it up and read:

 

“ _Dean,_

_There is food for you in the fridge.  I hope you are well.  Please, call me._

_Castiel”_

 

            Dean shook his head, suddenly feeling slightly guilty about all of Cas’s missed calls.  He peeked into the fridge and found a lasagna waiting for him.  He hadn’t even known that Cas could cook.  “Whatever,” Dean muttered to himself on his way up to the bathroom to shower.  “I’m not gonna feel bad.  The guy was a dick yesterday.  Probably made me the lasagna because he knew I was pissed.”

            Still, despite Dean’s determination not to feel guilty over snubbing Cas, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d also acted a bit petty the day before. 

            The shower was heavenly; it always was after a transformation.  The water always washed away more than the blood and dirt from a night on the prowl as a wild beast.  It washed away the troubles changing always brought with it—all of the fear and guilt and pain.  But today, it just wasn’t doing the job on that score.  Even in this safe haven, Gordon Walker’s words rang in Dean’s mind, and he felt dirty just thinking them again.  The man had been calm, so matter-of-fact, while he talked about killing vampires.  Cas.  The guy gave Dean the jeebs, if he was being honest.  Seriously, who the hell did this Gordon guy think he was, following Dean around, spying on him?  Dean wasn’t some dumb kid. He didn’t need Gordon’s help.  And anyway, the guy definitely didn’t know what he was talking about.  How the hell would someone like Cas know who was running Philadelphia?  Yeah, Dean definitely knew that there were bad vampires in the city—they’d tried to kill him, after all—but Cas wasn’t one of them.  Cas had saved Dean, and had been a good friend to him since then.  Cas wasn’t the kind of guy that Gordon was talking about.  No way.  Dude drank animal blood and wore suits and sold dusty books.  He wasn’t the super villain type.

            Whatever.  Dean told himself he’d shake off Gordon’s words and carry on like he’d never met the guy.

 

 

 

 

 

            Dean wasn’t sure what prompted him to do it, except that he was still strangely, irrationally upset by what happened the day before, and all the things that Gordon said.  And damn it, Dean just didn’t like this _feeling._ This guilty, hollow feeling in his gut because he was fighting with Cas.  It all seemed so dumb now, anyway.  It wasn’t like Cas had intentionally freaked Dean out—he’d only acted how he always did, anyway.  And he’d tried to _protect_ Dean…not that Dean _needed_ protecting.  After Dean had pulled on a pair of jeans, he strode across the hallway to his friend’s room and rapped on the door.  After waiting a second with no answer, Dean twisted the knob and squeezed inside.

            The place was way brighter and airier than he’d thought it would be…being the lair of a vampire and all.  Everything was tidy, except for a couple books strewn across Cas’s desk.  Dean knew he was sort of trespassing, and he knew that there was seriously something wrong with him for doing what he was about to do, but at this point, he didn’t honestly give a fuck.  All he knew was that he felt angry and frustrated, and sort of like a kicked puppy, and he didn’t know why.  He didn’t know how to fix it.  But he knew, somehow, deep down in his gut, that being with Cas… just touching him or smelling him, would make him feel better.  And he _seriously_ wasn’t even gonna think about analyzing that thought.  The thing was, though—Cas wasn’t home.  So Dean figured this was the next best thing.

            Dean opened Cas’s closet and tugged out one of the vampire’s white dress shirts.  It was a bit tight, Dean noticed, as he busied himself with the buttons, but it fit alright if he left the top couple ones open.  And anyway, it smelled like Cas, and for some crazy reason, that made Dean feel better, so he was determined not to overthink it.  As soon as Dean was finished buttoning the shirt, he headed back downstairs, stomach growling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Volunteering at the homeless shelter was always a very cathartic experience for Castiel.  However, it was also very draining. 

            It had been almost two hundred years since Castiel had been a human, but when he allowed himself to think of it, he could still remember what it felt like to be cold, hungry, desperate.  It had been his lack of hope and opportunities, alone in the big bad city of Philadelphia that had prompted him to say yes to Lucifer’s invitation.  The invitation that led to Castiel becoming what he was now.  After he’d turned and begun to embrace his new life, Castiel had made a promise to himself that he would never be in that situation again.  He would never be so desperate that he would depend on another person again.

            Much had changed in the last two centuries, but the state of poverty in his city hadn’t.  Everywhere Castiel went, destitute men and women and children shied away from him when they weren’t brave enough to come forth with their hands outstretched, begging for anything he could give.  He pitied them.  And he felt a kindred connection with them.  He knew what it was to be in their shoes.

            Even at the height of his blood-drenched days, even at his most depraved, Castiel had never been able to bring himself to prey on the poor, homeless, and world-weary.  He would never allow himself to become _that_ particular kind of monster.

 

 

 

 

            After six hours of serving meals and visiting with some of the shelter’s regulars, Castiel was happy to be back home.  Still, he stood, tentative, on the front stoop of his house, hand poised above the door knob, debating with himself whether or not to enter.  He already knew Dean was home, could smell him through the walls.  Dean still hadn’t returned any of his calls, and he didn’t know what sort of reception he might get if he walked in there and confronted Dean now.

            Castiel took a deep breath and braced himself to deal with Dean’s anger as he pushed the door open.

            Castiel almost stumbled when he entered the kitchen, surprised to find Dean sitting at the table, tired but comfortable looking, eating the meal that Castiel had prepared for him.  However, what very nearly sent Castiel reeling was the fact that Dean was wearing one of his shirts.  He could smell himself on Dean.  The sight of Dean in his clothes and the close blend of their scents sent a wave of arousal and possessiveness crashing through Castiel, and he had to fight to keep himself from lunging across the table at Dean, pressing him against a wall like he had just the day before, and….

            Castiel clenched his fists tightly and forced himself to take deep, steadying breaths.  Dean glanced up from his food at Castiel’s entrance and flashed him a welcoming, half-apologetic smile an instant before his eyes grew concerned and he said “Hey man… your eyes are all…glowy.  Are you alright?”

            Castiel cleared his throat and forced a smile of his own.  “Yes.  It’s…nothing.”  Castiel waved his hand in a way that he hoped looked casual and said “You…uh…. You are wearing my shirt.”

            “Oh, yeah,” Dean glanced down at himself and blushed lightly.  “Got out of the shower this morning and realized that I need to do laundry.  All my stuff is dirty.  Hope you don’t mind.”

            “No,” Castiel assured, shaking his head and taking a seat at the table across from Dean.  “Of course it’s fine.”  It was more than fine.  It was perfect, really.  Castiel never would have imagined how arousing but also…soothing…it was to see Dean in his clothes, wrapped in his scent.  Dean probably didn’t realize that he had metaphorically wrapped himself in Cas, accepted his protection.  Wearing another’s clothes was a sign of closeness…. Castiel knew that it was something that lovers often did.  It filled him with a burning satisfaction to see Dean so relaxed in this way.  Castiel watched Dean fondly as the man took a large bit of the lasagna and moaned with appreciation.  Castiel’s pulse jumped and he forced himself to look away.  He cleared his throat and murmured “Dean… I wanted to apologize again for what happened yesterday.  It was not my intention to…upset you.”

            Dean glanced up and waved the apology away.  He swallowed his mouth of food and muttered “Yeah, don’t worry about it, Cas.  I sort of overreacted, too.”

            Castiel exhaled a deep breath and allowed a smile to flit over his lips.  “Are you and I…cool…then?”

            Dean chuckled.  “Yeah, man.  We’re good.”  Dean licked his lips and then added “Sorry I made you worry.  I was gonna call you back this morning, but I got sort of…distracted.”

            “Oh?  By what?”

            Dean snorted.  “Met another werewolf.”

            Castiel immediately straightened, senses on high alert.  He had to fight to keep a snarl out of his voice when he asked “What happened?”

            Dean shrugged.  “Not a lot.  Guy said he just wanted to talk, wanted to be my Mr. Miyagi or some shit.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Gordon Walker.”

            “So…should I expect to see this Gordon Walker around the house, then?”

            “Nah,” Dean shrugged, averting his eyes again. “Guy was sort of a dick.”


	10. She Came On A Rainy Day

 

 

            It was raining.  Of course it fucking was. 

            Rainy days used to be Jo’s favorite, but not in a sit-at-home with a latte and a good book kind of way.  Ever since she was a little kid, she used to love to go out and play in it.  Ellen used to roll her eyes good-naturedly and suit Jo up in her galoshes and rain coat and send her out to splash in the puddles.  Jo used to jump and stomp and laugh as the cool water splashed up at her, muddy flecks marring her yellow coat.  Only after she was good and muddy, soaked and cold, would she go back inside where Ellen would tut, shake her head, and force Jo to wash and change into warm, clean clothes.  Then, and only then, would she settle down and enjoy the day from inside.  She could still remember the comforting taste of the warm, thick hot chocolate that her mother used to make for her on days like that.  Jo would sit in front of the window and watch the rain continue, little hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, nibbling on graham crackers.

            She missed it.  She missed a lot of things.  She missed her mother, who she hadn’t seen since nearly a week before… the incident.  And Jo hadn’t been able to leave the house since then, either.  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, just that she couldn’t.  She didn’t know how to.

            So instead she spent her days looking out the windows at the world, not content, but…accepting of the way that the world continued on without her.  But then Dean and Cas had moved in, and her world had tipped upside down.  She still couldn’t leave, but she didn’t feel quite so alone anymore.  They could at least see her and hear her, even if they were crazy.  Or monsters.

            She was doing okay adapting now.  Well, for being dead, at least.  She was still trying to wrap her mind around this whole “continued-existence” gig.  She was still here and she could still interact with some people, but she wasn’t alive, and there was a hell of a lot that she could no longer do.  Her new roommates sort of brought it all into a new perspective.  If they were really monsters (and Jo pretty much believed them at this point) then that meant that maybe she wasn’t alone, maybe she wasn’t such a freak.  But they also made her so much more aware of her own limitations.  When she’d thought that Cas was gonna go to the homeless shelter to snack on some people, she’d wanted to stop him, and felt the need to keep him from doing harm, but there was nothing she could actually do.  She couldn’t touch him to stop him, she couldn’t shut the door to keep him in, and she couldn’t follow him to keep an eye on him either.  Basically, she was just a sad, pathetic shadow of who she used to be. 

            Outside, the rain continued to come down in thick sheets, blurring out the world around St. James Street.  The buildings and streets were cast in dark mute colors, drenched and drowning in the storm.  Jo could feel herself sinking into it, brooding, accepting. 

            And then, out of nowhere, a burst of color caught her eye.  Jo leaned closer to the third story window and watched as someone covered in a lime-green poncho with yellow polka dots made their way quickly down the sidewalk, and ascended the stairs below.  A moment later, Jo was jolted out of her reverie when the shrill buzz of the doorbell sounded.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

            It was a Saturday, Dean’s day off from the garage, thank God.  It was raining like  a mother out there, and the last thing Dean wanted to deal with on a day like this was some douchebag bringing his car in and barking orders at Dean to get it fixed up quick because he was too dumb to take basic precautions when driving around in weather like this.  No sir.  He’d much rather spend his weekend the way he currently was: sharing a cup of coffee with Cas in the comfort of their kitchen while they talked about their week with each other.

            Things had still been a bit awkward between them since the whole full moon fiasco, but they were slowly working past it, Dean thought.  Mostly they were ignoring it, but that was the same thing, right?  Anyway, Dean was perfectly content to watch Cas sip daintily from his fancy coffee and talk about books instead of bringing up crazy vampire chicks who molest people in bookstores or werewolf stalkers.

            They had no plans for the day.  Maybe they’d settle in the living room and watch a movie later, or maybe Dean would take a nice long nap in the comfort of his own room, or maybe they’d just sit here and drink coffee all day.  Point was that Dean was happy.  He was home, spending the day with his weird best friend, and everything was good.

            Which is probably why Dean reacted so strongly when the doorbell rang.  “Son of a bitch,” he moaned, thunking his forehead down onto the kitchen table.  Considering that the only people in this godforsaken city that Dean liked besides Cas were the folks from the garage and they didn’t know where he lived, Dean felt justified in his belief that whoever was on their doorstep was gonna put him in a bad mood.  Even Cas frowned as he stood with casual, measured grace—none of that vampire super-speed that Dean knew he had in him. 

            “I’m not expecting anyone,” Cas murmured.  He cocked his head to the side.  “Dean?”

            “Nah man, me neither.”  He shut his eyes for a moment.  “Can’t we just ignore it and pretend we’re not home?”

            Cas flashed an exasperated look his way before making his way to the foyer.  “It could be important, Dean.”  Cas chastised.  Dean rolled his eyes but followed anyway.  Cas didn’t bother with normal people things like looking through the peephole or grabbing a weapon or anything.  He simply pulled the door open with a pleasantly curious face, a calm “Hello, how can I help you?” already on his lips.

            Standing on their doorstep was a sacrilegious clash of colors.  Big, round hazel eyes sat in a long, pale face topped with a mop of bright red hair.  Covering it all was a lime-green poncho with yellow polka-dots, and even Dean knew that those things shouldn’t go together.  The young woman standing before them twisted nervous hands in front of herself for just a moment before she thrust a hand out at Cas and hitched a smile on her thin lips.  “Hi, I’m Charlie Bradbury.”  Cas took her hand into his much larger one and shook politely.  She shifted her eyes from Cas to Dean then back again and pulled her hand back.  She shifted her weight, obviously nervous, and Dean could hear her gulp in a breath.  “I’m here to see Jo Harvelle.”

            Dean couldn’t help the sympathetic wince at her words and Cas frowned at her.  His voice took on a more somber tone when he said “Were you a friend of hers?”

            Charlie shrugged.  “Yeah, sort of.”

            Cas looked pained when he said “I’m sorry to have to be the one to give you this news then, but regretfully… Jo Harvelle passed away nearly six months ago.”

            Charlie shifted on her feet again and shoved her hands in her pockets.  Her mouth thinned even further and she huffed.  “Yeah, I know.”

            Dean crossed his arms and frowned hard, completely taken aback by her answer.  “You know.”  She shrugged helplessly.  “They why are you asking for her if you know she’s…gone?”

            Charlie rolled her eyes and held her hands up placatingly.  “Look, I know this is gonna sound weird, and it’s a lot to take in, but…” She took a deep breath and settled serious hazel eyes on the both of them.  “I’m sort of…psychic… and for some reason, I keep dreaming about Jo, so I figured I should probably come and see what she wants.”

            Dean scoffed.  “You expect us to believe that?”

            Charlie shrugged helplessly, but then her eyes shifted from Dean to settle on the previously-empty space between he and Cas, where Jo now hovered, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock.  Charlie smiled and huffed out a relieved breath.  “There you are.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The living room felt too small.  Jo paced back and forth in front of the sofa where Charlie sat in her wet poncho, guarded on both sides by surly monsters.  Jo was probably equal parts freaked out and flattered that this strange girl who claimed to be a psychic had come asking for her, had apparently been dreaming about her.  Jo crossed her arms in front of her, for all the good it did, and wondered just what this girl knew about her.  _Man up, Harvelle,_ she told herself before coming to stand in front of Charlie.  “So what do you know about me?”

            Charlie shrugged and glanced warily at Dean and Cas at her sides before refocusing her attention on Jo.  “A lot, I guess.  I mean, I’ve been dreaming about you for months.”  She twisted long, pale fingers nervously on her lap.  “And uh, despite what you all might think, I’m not crazy, alright.  I did a lot of research before I came, and it took a lot to convince me that you were real.  No offense, but I’m not exactly the kind of girl to fly halfway across the country just to start trouble with people I’ve never met before.”

            “You flew halfway across the country?”  Dean blurted at the same time Cas asked “Where are you staying?”

            Charlie ignored Dean and turned her attention to Cas.  “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice person and all, but I’m not really into the whole “giving strangers my address” kinda thing, capiche?  I’ve got a place, you don’t need to worry about me.”

            “Alright.”  He conceded with a nod.

            “So, uh…why did you come?”  Jo bit her lip but showed no other outward sign of nerves.

            “Weeelll,” Charlie said, drawing the word out, “you needed help, obviously.  And it’s not like I could exactly ignore the dreams.  Not to come off as rude or anything, but uh… there’s only so much more of the nightmares I can take.  Some of them are pretty graphic.”

            Jo nodded jerkily.  “Right.  Yeah.  I get that.”

            “Wait, so you know how she died?”  Dean demanded.

            “Yeah, dude, keep up.”  Charlie snapped, rolling her eyes impatiently.

            “What are you supposed to help me with?”  Jo asked, voice barely audible.

            Charlie narrowed her eyes and she suddenly looked much fiercer, green poncho aside.  “I’m here to help you get justice for your murder.”


	11. Who I Used To Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of murder and graphic recounting of violence.

 

 

            “You were _murdered?!”_ Dean blurted, surging up from the sofa.  “ _What the hell_ , Jo?”

            Jo rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, hip cocked.  “Well, yeah.  What, did you think I’d hang around haunting this joint if I went peacefully in my sleep or something?”

            “I dunno!  You’re the first ghost I’ve ever met.  But seriously, dude…how come you never said anything?”

            Charlie snorted and Jo glared at Dean.  “Oh, well forgive me for not going into the details of my traumatic death!  It’s not really something I like talking about, alright?”

            “But you remember it?”  Cas prompted.

            “Yeah,” Jo admitted, shoulders sagging.  She scuffed the toe of her combat boot against the wooden floor.  “I remember it all.”

            Charlie sat forward, hands tugging at her sleeves, red hair damp from the rain.  “I think you should tell them, your room mates.  I dreamed about them too, sort of, and I think they can help.”

            Jo shuddered and turned away, hugging herself.  “It’s not a nice story.”

            Dean took a tentative step forward, reaching for Jo, though of course he could not touch her.  “You don’t have to tell us, but I mean, if you want to….if you think we can help, me and Cas will listen.  Won’t we Cas?”

            “Of course.  Dean and I will do whatever we can to aid you.  In whatever you choose to do.”

 

 

 

            “I wasn’t always this pathetic, you know.  Crying and whining and hanging out in the house all day.”  Jo glanced over her shoulder at the other three gathered in the room.  “I was a police officer, you know.”  Jo smiled sadly and shook her head.  “It was the only thing I ever wanted to be when I grew up.  A cop.  A detective, actually.

            “Mom always said it was a stupid idea.  She only half meant it.  She was afraid I’d end up like my dad.  He was a cop too.  Died when I was only seven years old when he walked into a robbery in progress with no back-up.  Mom loved him like crazy, and she was proud of him, but she was never the same after he died.  It was just me and her after that, and she didn’t take it real well when I told her I wanted to be a cop just like dad.  She told me I’d go the same way as him.”  Jo chuckled mirthlessly.  “Guess she was right, huh?

            “It wasn’t a robber that got me, though.  And it wasn’t an accident.  It was fucking planned.”  The room rattled at her angry words, and Jo was quiet for a moment in an effort to control herself.  The others wisely kept silent.

            “I was a new cadet, fresh out of the academy, and I was desperate to really get into the thick of things, you know?  I’d grown up learning about that kind of life, and it was finally my turn.  It wasn’t easy, let me tell you.  A lot of the guys at the academy were pricks, and they did their best to try to _dissuade me_ from finishing.  I mean, look at me—I’m blonde, skinny, and young, with a decent rack.  I was their perfect target.  But I wasn’t dumb.  And I wasn’t a coward.  And I sure as hell didn’t back down from anything those sons of bitches threw at me.  I stuck to it, and I worked my ass off, and I ended up with higher scores than any of them.  Even though mom never wanted me to become a cop, she was so proud of me for that.

            “Anyway, first year on the job, I was real eager to prove myself, you know—show them that I had what it takes to make it as a cop.  I didn’t wanna stop there, though.  I always had my sights set higher.  I wanted to be a detective so bad I could taste it.  I wanted to be the person who solved the high profile murders, you know?

            “I was dumb, really.  I had no idea what I was getting into.  But I started sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.  I had a friend on the force—sort of.  Guy used to know my dad.  Anyway, he got me access to a lot of stuff that I wasn’t supposed to have, strictly speaking.  But I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal because all of the files I got my hands on were cold cases.   I figured there was no harm in checking up on a few things.  Maybe pick up a new lead.  I thought that if I cracked a case, I’d get attention, you know?  Maybe a promotion.”  Jo chuckled again and the sound was wrong, grating in the stuffy room.  The floor and walls trembled but in a much slower, deeper way than before.  “Like I said, I was dumb.”

            “What did you find?”  Cas asked, voice strangely calm.

            “A whole lot of murders that were never properly investigated.”  Jo snorted and when she turned back to face them fully, Dean felt dumb for never being able to tell that Jo was sort of a badass.  She held herself in a way that suggested battle preparedness, and even her clothing choice made more sense now.  “I found a whole fucking filing cabinet of unsolved murders just from the city.  I didn’t even go back that far—a lot of the murders were relatively recent—no way they should have been marked as cold cases.  But there were so many of them.  Most of the victims were people that no one would miss, ya know?  Prostitutes, runaways, old people without families, the homeless.”

            Next to Dean, Cas clenched his fists in his lap and his eyes seemed to grow darker.  Dean shifted uncomfortably next to him, confused by the reaction.

            “Their murders were all pretty grim too—not that murder is ever nice, but these were different.  Real bloody.  Throats ripped out, bodies torn apart.  Torture victims.  Some of them were found in the slums, wrists bound, blindfolded.  Others were completely drained of blood by the time they were found.  I couldn’t believe what I was reading, couldn’t believe that the higher-ups had ever signed off on those reports and allowed them to be shoved into a fucking filing cabinet.  I was pissed off and disgusted, and I wanted justice for all of those people.”

            “What happened?”  Dean realized only after the fact that he’d been the one to ask the question.

            Jo snorted and her eyes narrowed.  “I drew the wrong sort of attention.  I’m not sure who found out, or how, but one day this guy… really tall and skinny in a sickly kind of way, cornered me in the parking garage and told me to quit snooping.  He had this really nasally voice, and he threw a major creep vibe, but I was used to creeps, ya know?  I knew he was trying to intimidate me, but I blew him off.  There was a lot at stake with those investigations—a lot of innocent people dead.  I wasn’t just gonna quit.

            “I never got another warning.  I never found out who they were, or who sent them.  I don’t even know _why_ they did it, except that I must have stumbled upon a clue or something that I didn’t realize yet.”

            “ _What did they do to you?”_ Cas growled.

            Jo leveled her gaze on Cas, unflinching in the face of his sudden rage.  “They killed me.”

            Charlie shuddered and buried her face in her hands.  “Tell them.”

            Jo nodded absently and motioned around her.  “They jumped me just outside.  There was more than one of them, but I never got a good look at their faces.  They were fast, and it was dark.  They stabbed me… a lot, I think.  I dunno, I lost a lot of blood.  I don’t know how I managed it, but I got away from them long enough to get inside the house.  I had my cell on me, managed to dial 911, but it was just too much, ya know?  Even for someone as stubborn as me.  I uh… didn’t make it.”  Jo gestured sadly at herself.  “I was gone before the ambulance could get here.”

            Dean wanted to go to her, this angry young woman, and wrap her in his arms, but he knew that he couldn’t.  He figured she probably wouldn’t take the comfort even if he could.  He only turned his gaze away from Jo’s sad eyes when he heard a sniffle and he realized that Charlie was crying on the couch next to him.

            Cas, though… Cas’s face was a mask of rage.  His eyes were dark and hard, and his voice was a frightening growl when he asked “Who—who was the officer who signed off on those files?”  Dean shuddered at his tone.

            Jo shrugged.  “Some guy named Azazel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, there it is! Things just got a lot more complicated *cackles* I'd love to hear what you all think! :D


	12. My City

 

 

            Lucifer owned several businesses and properties across the city; this didn’t surprise Castiel, because he always had—at least, he had ever since Philadelphia was a city worth noticing.  Lucifer was old—certainly older than Castiel, and over time, he’d grown into his ways, and even today was loathe to break with tradition.  He still surrounded himself with those who were desperate—desperate for attention, and money, and life.  He still dwelled in a penthouse, though he’d moved to a different part of the city more than twenty years ago.  He surrounded himself with luxury wherever he went.  Even the dark, seedy blood dens he created had their own dark allure.  Blood and sex and drugs, draped in expensive fabrics, guarded by men who wore Armani suits.  It was a scene Castiel was familiar with—a scene he had helped to create once, a long time ago.

            It was easy to find Lucifer at his old favorite haunt on an offshoot of Chelten Avenue in Germantown.  Even in the daylight hours, the place looked like nothing from the outside—an unimpressive, squat brick building located behind a pharmacy.  Most people would drive past it without casting it a second glance.  In fact, it was in a part of the town where it wasn’t irregular to see a window or two boarded up.  It didn’t inspire confidence, or curiosity, which Castiel knew was the point. 

            He walked to the place with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking utterly casual despite the swirl of cold rage that had taken up residence in his belly.  He made his way into the building easily, and encountered the expected suit-decked thugs just inside the door.  Castiel barely cast them a glance—they did not matter to him.  They knew who he was—only the very newest vampires didn’t—and they wisely let him pass without a word. 

            Inside, Castiel entered into a wide, dimly-lit but richly decorated foyer.  Small, sheer-curtained nooks and hallways branched off from the main room.  The scent of blood assaulted his nose from every direction, and was amplified when a group of glassy-eyed and scantily dressed men and women descended upon him.  Their bodies were lithe and smooth, drowsy with drugs and anemia, and still they pawed at him through the material of his suit jacket, offering their soft, vulnerable necks to him.  “Please,” one of the women said, and a young man with dark eyes added “Anything you want.”

            They smelled delicious, addictive.  Castiel could _feel_ the life pulsing within them, so he brushed their hands off and walked past them, his heightened senses leading him to Lucifer’s private room without any problem.  The guards there, too, let him pass—Lucifer must have sensed his coming—could probably smell him from three streets over.  After all, he’d taken his time. 

Lucifer was waiting for him, perched lazily on a cream-colored sofa, when Castiel pushed the doors open and entered.  A large desk sat in the corner: tidy, as always.  There were no half-naked, writhing men and women here, but then again, Lucifer had always held himself above such things.  He wore a finely tailored suit, with the top couple buttons on his shirt left open casually.  His legs were crossed at the knee and his arms were sprawled across the back of the couch—he took up the whole space, but managed to do it in a graceful way.  Some things never changed.

            He smiled at Castiel when he entered, and even motioned the guards away.  “Castiel.  It’s good to see you.  It’s been a while.”

            Castiel strolled into the room, the picture of utter calm, and came to stand in front of Lucifer, though he refused to participate in the practiced pleasantries.  “Lucifer,” he growled, “We need to talk.”

            “After all this time, Castiel?”  Lucifer cocked a brow and allowed a small, pleasant smile to cross his lips.  “Whatever do we have to discuss?”

            Castiel narrowed his eyes, just a fraction, and maintained his calm façade despite the anger and grief that swirled within him.  “Recently, I’ve received some troubling news.”

            “Oh?”

            “I see you still have your lapdog Azazel firmly ensconced in the police force.”  Lucifer’s face didn’t change, except that his blue eyes got a little brighter.  Castiel barely held back a snarl.  “If you are going to continue meddling in the affairs of this city, then I must insist that you reign in your boys and clean up after yourself better.  People are beginning to notice.”

            “Like you?”

            “Like me.”  Castiel’s shoulders tensed when he felt another presence enter the room from behind him, though he refused to turn.  “Leave the unfortunate alone, Lucifer.”

            Lucifer sneered at him, his mouth twisting, as he said “Oh yes, I almost forgot.  You have a soft spot for whores and vagabonds.”

            At that moment, Alastair wandered into Castiel’s line of sight, as smug and sickly looking as always.  His voice was a nasally drawl as he raked his eyes over Castiel scathingly and added, “Makes sense, since he was one of them not long ago.”

            Lucifer tutted, but didn’t move his eyes from Castiel when he said “Now, now, Alastair, be polite.”  Then he added, consideringly, “Although he does have a point, Castiel.  I’ve heard troubling news of you lately.”  His eyes darkened, only a shade, but Castiel noticed.  “A werewolf, really?  It’s shameful.”

            Castiel’s shoulders tensed at the mention of Dean, though he knew he should have expected it.  “The only thing shameful here is you and the way you let these miscreants run rampant.  Get them under control, Lucifer, or I will.”

            Off to the side, Alastair sneered again, face screwed up in disgust.  “Oh, right, you think this is _your_ city, don’t you?”

            Castiel was on him instantly, his fingers wrapped in a vice around Alastair’s neck, nails pricking into the soft flesh beneath his grip.  He squeezed hard enough to draw blood and growled as he felt Alastair’s windpipe twist and collapse, crushed in his fist.  “It _is_ my city,” he snarled, before he allowed the other man to drop in a heap at his feet.  He raised glowing blue eyes to Lucifer, who watched on, seemingly amused at the show of violence.  “Fix it.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Even though Dean could use the hours, he was grateful when Bobby let him go a couple hours early on Tuesday.  Dean was tired and frustrated, and honestly, he hadn’t been able to get any decent sleep at the house ever since Charlie showed up…or maybe since even before that.  He couldn’t even be sure anymore.  Though the perky, snarky redhead claimed she had a place to stay somewhere in the city, she rarely left the house, instead seeming perfectly content to lock herself up in the attic with Jo.  Dean had no idea what they were talking about, honestly.  Psychic things?  Ghost things?  Murder things?  Dean tried not to think too hard about it, really.  What good would it do?  He had no idea how Charlie thought she was going to help Jo.  They were kidding themselves, really.  Still, it could have been worse, Dean thought, as he clocked out and made his way to the semi-empty lot to crawl into the Impala and make his way home. 

            He stopped just outside the door of the shop, though, the blood freezing in his veins.  Dean couldn’t decide whether he was more furious or terrified, when he noticed that douchebag Gordon Walker leaning against his Baby, waiting for him.  Dean snarled and strode across the parking lot, ready to tear the guy a new one, but hesitated just before he reached the other werewolf, when Gordon held up his hands as a show of peace.  “Calm down, Dean, I’m not here to fight.”  He called, voice calm and steady.

            Dean crossed his arms and stood in front of the guy, lip curling as he growled “Then what the hell are you doing here?  And how did you find out where I work?”

            Gordon rolled his eyes.  “I told you, Dean, I’m trying to look out for you.  Someone needs to, since it’s obvious you don’t know how to look out for yourself.”

            Dean was losing his temper real fast.  “What the fuck are you even talking about?  Seriously, drop the cryptic, because I’m about to lose my temper all over your face.”

            Gordon sighed, like Dean was a particularly difficult child and said “Fine.  You know what?  I’ll humor you for now, because I can tell that you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”  Dean opened his mouth to growl out another threat, but Gordon beat him to it, rushing to add “I’m here to enlighten you.”

            “About what?”

            “Castiel.”

            Dean huffed a breath.  Not this shit again.  “What about Cas?”

            Gordon’s lip curled in disgust.  “You shouldn’t get attached, Dean.  Your ‘Cas’ is a bloodthirsty murderer.”

            “Right.  Okay.  I get it.  Vampires are evil.  I’m right there with you, man.  But Cas is clean.  Alright?  He’s not like the others.”

            “Not like the others?”  Gordon’s eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open in incredulity.  “Dean, he’s so much fucking worse!”

            “How do you figure?”  Dean rolled his eyes at Gordon’s drama.  He’d obviously never met Cas.  “The guy drinks animal blood for Christ’s sake!”

            “Now he does.  But for how long?  Do you have any idea of who he is?  Who he _was?_ ”

            “Obviously not,” Dean rolled his eyes, “but you’re gonna inform me, right?  So go ahead, man, lay it on me.  Get it off your chest.”

            “You shouldn’t treat this so lightly, Dean.  This is serious.”

            “Whatever.”  Dean glanced back at the shop before he focused his attention on Gordon once more.  “Let’s get this over with.  What’s so terrible that I need to know?”

            “ _Cas_ ,” Gordon spit the name mockingly, “is the vampire who runs this town, Dean.”

            Dean snorted.  “Yeah, no.  You got the wrong guy, man.  Cas runs a bookstore, and that’s about it.”

            “No, Dean.  He runs Philadelphia.  Has since the 1850s.”  Part of Dean went cold, but he laughed it off.  “Don’t believe me?”  Gordon asked.  “Fine, read this.”  He shoved a manila folder into Dean’s hands.

            “What is it?”  Dean asked, feeling sort of anxious and weary at this point.

            “His rap sheet.”  With that ominous declaration, Gordon pushed himself away from the Impala and stalked down the road, not even bothering to glance back to see what Dean did with the information.

            Dean rolled his eyes at the drama, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.  So, casually, he flipped the folder open and stared down, shocked and sort of sick feeling, at the list of names that stretched on and on, seemingly for page after page.  “Son of a bitch.”  Dean muttered.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! Also, feel free to come stalk me on my tumblr: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/


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